1 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

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LIBRARY  • 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


t 


— “the  autumn  fire 
Was  feasting  at  the  well-built  pyre. 


THE 


WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES, 


n 


om  of  the  ijags  of  ^eoentg-^k. 


BY 

T-  BUCHANAN  IN  UC  Ay  D. 


f. 


Look  on  your  country,  God’s  appointed  stage, 

Where  man’s  vast  mind  its  boundless  course  shall  run. 
For  that  it  was  your  stormy  coast  He  spread, — 

A  fear  in  winter  ;  girdled  you  about 

With  granite  hills,  and  made  you  firm  and  dread. 

Let  him  who  fears  before  the  foeman  shout, 

Or  gives  one  inch  before  a  vein  has  bled, 

Turn  on  himself  and  let  the  traitor  out. 

Bokbk. 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  DRAWINGS  BY 
HOYENDEN,  FEN  N,  GAUL,  AND  LOW, 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

LONDON:  10  HENRIETTA  STREET,  COYENT  GARDEN. 

1892. 


Copyright,  1868,  and  1884,  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co, 


Copyright,  1890,  by  Harriet  Dennison  Read. 


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P  R  R  FACE. 


TTH  the  exception  of  some  of  his  lyrics,  none  of  Buchanan 

Read’s  poems  has  been  so  popular  as  “The  Wagoner 

of  the  Alleghanies.”  It  was  written  under  the  inspira- 
t 

tion  of  feelings  which  were  the  strongest  in  his  own  nature 
an<jl  which  never  fail  to  awaken  sympathy  in  most  natures, — 

r 

patriotism  and  the  love  of  rural  life.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the 
fruitful  valleys  of  his  native  State,  and  the  period  is  that  of 
the;  Revolution.  The  occasion  and  purpose  of  its  composition 
were  connected  with  the  greatest  crisis  in  our  later  history, 
and  before  its  publication  portions  of  it  had  been  made  familiar 
through  the  recitations  of  the  accomplished  elocutionist,  Mr. 
James  E.  Murdoch.  Its  themes  are  among  those  that  are  best 
suited  to  illustration,  and  the  well-known  American  artists 
whose  pencils  have  adorned  this  edition  may  be  supposed  to 
have  worked  con  amore. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


— “the  autumn  fire 

Was  feasting  at  the  well-built  pyre”  ..... 

Drawn  by  Thomas  Hovenden.  Engraved  by  G.  H.  Reed . 


“On  many  a  dangerous  mountain-track” 

Drawn  by  Harry  Fenn.  Engraved  by  John  Andrew. 


“Yague  as  a  vessel  in  a  dream”  ..... 

Drawn  by  Harry  Fenn.  Engraved  by  John  Andrew. 


“The  gold  harp  propping  the  weary  head” 

Drawn  by  Will  H.  Low.  Engraved  by  Geo.  P.  Williams. 

“There  still  his  blade  of  battle  swung”  .... 

Drawn  by  Gilbert  Gaul.  Engraved  by  Frank  French. 

I 

“An  iron  hand  was  thrust  between”  ..... 


Frontispiece 


Page  13 


.  Page  16 


Page  26 


Page  42 


Page  66 


Drawn  by  Thomas  Hovenden.  Engraved  by  C.  H.  Reed. 


•  1 1  I  «  1  V.'  1 


I 


■V  !  I'  •  VM  M 

'  i 


\ 


The  scenes  of  this  poem  are  chiefly  laid  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill, 
between  Philadelphia  and  Valley  Forge;  the  time,  some¬ 
what  previous  to  and  during  a  great  part  of' 
the  war  of  Independence. 


DEDICATION. 

T  O  JAMES  E.  OLAGHORN. 


Might  I  draw  the  inspiration 
Which  the  sky  not  oft  awards, 

And  so  join  the  constellation 
Of  the  death-defying  hards  ; 

Might  I  build  some  lofty  moral, 
Reaching  heavenward  like  a  hill, 

On  whose  top  should  grow  the  laurel, 
Leaning  towards  me  at  its  will ; — 

I  would  gather  all  the  honor 
Not  to  hind  around  my  brow  ; 

But  to  you,  a  grateful  donor, 

I  would  come,  as  I  do  now, 

And  bring  trophies,  where  the  Ages 
Should  behold  our  mingled  names  : 

But,  alas  !  these  simple  pages 
Are  the  most  my  labor  claims. 

Yet,  should  any  leaves  grow  vernal 
In  the  summer  breath  of  praise, 

Then  for  you,  with  hand  fraternal, 
Let  me  twine  my  wreath  of  bays. 


Rome,  August  1, 1861. 


7 


8 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


INTRODUCTION. 

A  guest  was  I  at  Berkley  Hall, — 
And  more  behooves  not  guest  to  say : 
The  very  pictures  on  the  wall 

With  kindness  seemed  to  whisper, 
“  Stay  !”— 

Old  portraits  of  a  dwindled  line, 
Prom  Lely’s  ruflf  and  doublet  down 
To  Copley’s  matchless  coat  and 
gown, 

Or  Stuart’s  later  touch  divine. 

Still  from  their  frames  of  gold  or  oak, 
A  knight  or  lady  shepherdess, 

In  valor  or  in  loveliness, 

Leaned  through  the  twilight  air  and 
spoke : 

They  whispered  that  the  road  was 
dark, 

And  lone  the  highway  by  the  river, 
That  past  recall  the  latest  barque 
Had  swept  the  landing  of  the  park, — 
There  on  the  stream  I  still  might 
mark 

Its  fading  path  of  ripples  quiver, 
And  hear  the  shore-wave  running 
after, 

Like  childhood  with  a  voice  of  laugh¬ 
ter. 

’Twas  evening,  and  the  autumn  fire 
Was  feasting  at  the  well-built  pyre, 
Where  every  log,  with  glowing  mirth, 
Poured  from  its  breast  of  ample  girth 
Some  memory  of  April  birth, 

To  cheer  the  hearth-stone  of  October. 
There,  conscious  of  his  place  and 
worth, 

One  lordly  hound,  with  visage  sober, 
Sheathed  his  large  eyes  in  sleep’s 
eclipse, 

While  visions  of  the  woodland 
chase 

Disturbed  the  slumber  on  his  face 
With  twinklings  at  his  ears  and  lips. 

That  honored  hearth  was  like  a  gate 
Wide  with  the  welcome  of  old  days ; 
No  sulphur-fuming,  modern  grate, 
Which  black  bitumen  daily  crams, 
But  waved  between  its  ample  jambs 
Its  flag  of  hospitable  blaze. 

A  century  gone  ’twas  lined  with  tiles, 
Like  those  the  hearths  of  Holland 
show  ; 

Andstill  each  Scripture  picture  smiles 
And  brightens  in  the  hickory  glow. 


Oft  from  those  painted  sermons  rude, 
In  musing  hours  of  solitude, 

A  voiceless  thought  hath  searched  the 
heart 

Beyond  the  theologian’s  art. 

A  moral  winged  with  verse  may  reach 
A  soul  no  weightier  words  will  teach. 
As  arrow  from  the  archer’s  bow 
Has  cleaved  where  falchion  failed  to 
go; 

And  truths  from  out  a  picture  oft, 

In  colors  as  the  iris  soft, 

May  shed  an  influence  to  remain 
Where  argument  would  strive  in  vain. 

The  chairs  were  quaint,  antique,  and 
tall, 

As  in  some  old  baronial  hall ; 

And  in  an  alcove  dusk  and  dim, 

Like  Denmark’s  mailed  and  phan¬ 
tom  king, 

A  suit  of  armor  tall  and  grim 

With  upraised  glaive  seemed  beck¬ 
oning. 

And  had  it  walked,  the  gazer,  drawn, 
Must  needs  have  followed  on  and  on! 
The  perforated  steel  confessed 
What  death  had  pierced  the  wearer’s 
breast. 

Near  by,  upon  a  throne  upreared, 

A  harp  of  bygone  times  appeared; 
The  graceful  form  was  deftly  made, 
With  pearl  and  precious  woods  inlaid; 
And  in  the  firelight,  as  of  old, 

It  flushed  theshadowy  niche  with  gold. 

In  all  the  orchestras  which  lift 

The  soul  with  rapture  caught  from 
far, 

As  in  a  bright  triumphal  car 
Round  which  celestial  splendors  shift, 
No  instrument  of  earth  afiords 
An  influence  so  divine  and  deep 
As  when  the  flying  fingers  sweep 
The  harp,  with  all  its  wondrous  chords. 
Around  its  honored  form  there  lives 
Romance  mysterious,  vague,  and 
old; 

I  see  the  shapes  which  history  gives 
The  bards  in  dim  traditions  told, — 
With  visions  of  great  kingly  halls, 
Where  red,  barbaric  splendor  falls ; 
But  chiefly  I  behold  and  hear — 
While  bends  a  troop  of  seraphs  near — 
The  angels,  with  their  locks  of  gold. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


9 


Such  shadowy  halls  of  deep  repose 
A  New-World  homestead  seldom 
shows  ; 

But  such  the  traveller  frequent  sees, 
Embowered  within  ancestral  trees, 

In  that  maternal  isle  whose  breast 
First  warmed  our  eagle  into  life, 
And  then,  with  rude,  unnatural 
strife, 

Pushed  the  brave  offspring  from  her 
nest, — 

Which,  launched  upon  its  sunward 
track, 

No  voice  on  earth  could  summon 
back. 

Here,  while  I  slowly  paced  the  room, 
Strange  visions  tilled  the  fitful  gloom. 
On  soft,  invisible  feet  they  came  ; 

I  heard  them  speak, — or  was’t  the 
flame 

That  muttered  in  the  chimney  wide? 
Faint  shadows  wavered  at  my  side, 
My  spirit  heard  a  spirit  sigh, 

While  gauzy  garments  rustled  by  ! 

A  pallid  phantom  of  the  fire 
Leapt  o’er  the  high  flame  wildly 
higher, — • 

A  blaze  that  vanished  with  a  bound  ! 
A  whine  escaped  the  sleeping 
hound, — • 

A  sudden  wind  swept  up  the  lane, 
And  drove  the  leaves  like  frighted 
herds ; 

Some,  like  the  ghosts  of  summer 
birds, 

Fluttered  against  the  window-pane. 

Hawthorne,  my  friend,  had  I  your 
Vand, 

How,  at  the  waving  of  my  hand, 

The  place,  and  all  its  grandeur 
gone, 

Should  on  the  marvelling  vision 
dawn ! 

Each  shepherdess,  or  warrior  bold, 
Each  knight  and  dame,  in  ruff  and 
frill, 

Obedient  to  the  wizard  will, 

Should  step  from  antique  oak  or  gold  ; 
Bright  eyes  should  glance,  sweet 
voices  sing, 

And  light  feet  trip  the  waxen  floor, 
And  round  the  festive  board  should 
ring 

The  friendly  goblets,  as  of  yore ; 


And  Love’s  sweet  grief  be  newly 
told 

Under  the  elm-trees,  as  of  old. 

But,  ah  !  the  hazel  wand  you  wield 

Was  grown  by  that  enchanted 
stream 

Which  sometimes  flashes  through 
my  dream, 

But  flows  not  through  my  barren 
field! 

The  host  came  in :  he  took  my 
hand : 

He  saw  the  wonder  on  my  face, 
And  said,  “  Ah,  yes  :  I  understand: 

You  marvel  at  this  curious  place, 
Which  starts  your  fancy  into  play. 
My  locks,  you  see,  are  somewhat 
gray  : 

What  touches  you  on  me  is  lost. 
This  white  hair  drives  romance 
away, 

As  flowers  are  driven  by  the  frost. 
But  if  a  tale  would  please  your  ear, 
There’s  one  which  you  are  free  to 
hear. 

“Within  a  little,  secret  drawer 
Of  this  black,  antique  escritoire, 

I  found  a  simple  golden  case, 

Which  held  the  semblance  of  a  face 
So  wondrous  in  its  wild  attire 

Of  floating  robe  and  flying  hair, 

And  eyes  that  thrilled  the  very  air 
To  pleasure  with  their  starry  fire, 
That  instantly  the  long-passed  name 
Blazed  on  my  memory  like*  a  flame ; 

And  old  traditions,  dimmed  by 
years, 

Breathed  from  invisible  lips  there 
came, 

And  lingered  in  my  credulous 
ears, 

And  night  and  day  disturbed  my 
soul, 

Until,  perforce,  I  wrote  the  whole  : 
That  is  the  picture, — this  the  scroll. 
Draw  near ;  and  let  wild  Autumn 
blow  : 

He  does  but  fan  the  lighted  pyre : 

Between  the  warmth  of  wine  and 
fire 

Perchance  the  verse  may  thaw  and 
flow 

From  off  the  visionary  lyre 
As  in  the  days  of  long  ago.” 


10 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


PART  I. 

i. 

BERKLEY’S  BRIDE. 

My  grandsire,  when  he  built  the  place, 
Sir  Hugh  (you  may  behold  him 
there, 

•  With  ruffles,  cue,  and  powdered 
hair, 

And  proper  blandness  on  his  face) 
Was  Tory,  and  his  loyal  soul 

No  rebel  dream  could  e’er  beguile: 
He  would  have  had  the  land  in  whole, 
Colossal,  touching  either  pole, 

A  likeness  of  his  native  isle ! 

Hence  the  Elizabethan  gables, 

The  lawns,  the  elms,  the  antique  sta¬ 
bles, 

And  all  this  lumber  called  virtu , 

This  old  time  frowning  down  the  new. 

But,  ere  I  tell  you  more  of  him, 

Or  point  the  objects  strange  and 
quaint, 

I  pray  you  rote  these  figures  dim, 
Half  hid  in  dust  and  cracking  paint. 
That  picture  of  those  little  ones, 
Which  represent  Alcmena’s  sons, 
Young  Hercules  and  his  weaker 
brother, — 

One  with  the  snake  in  his  baby 
hands, 

Crushing  it  as  in  iron  bands, 

While  in  affright  recoils  the  other, — 
Are  portraits  which  the  Berkley 
mother, 

In  all  the  wealth  of  parental  joys, 
Had  painted  of  her  two  fair  boys  ; 
And  pictured  thus,  because  she  knew 
There  was  that  difference  ’twixt  the 
two. 

The  child  who  holds  the  writhing 
snake 

Was  Ralph;  the  one  who  seems  to 
quake 

And  shudder  hack, — that  was  Sir 
Hugh. 

They  grew,  and  oft  the  quarrel  loud 
Raged  ’twixt  them  when  they  were 
together : 

Sir  Hugh  was  sullen,  wintry,  proud, 
The  other  fierce  as  mad  March 
weather, — 


A  swift,  cloud-blowing,  whirling  day, 
That  o’er  all  obstacles  makes  way, 
Whether  in  wrath  or  whether  in  play, 
Striding  on  to  the  stormy  end, 
Breaking  what  will  not  bow  or  bend. 

The  soul  which  lights  that  face  of 
paint, 

You  well  discern,  would  scorn  re¬ 
straint  ; 

And  when  he  grew  a  stripling  tall, 
Knowing  himself  the  younger 
brother, 

And  feeling  the  coldness  of  the 
other, 

The  place  for  him  proved  far  too 
small : 

So,  staying  not  for  leave  to  ask, 

Our  Hercules  went  to  seek  his  task  ; 
And,  lest  his  family  might  reclaim 
The  truant,  took  another  name, 
j  Joining  the  army.  Tradition  tells 
j  He  did  some  daring  miracles. 

’Twas  said  he  fell  in  a  midnight  trench 
At  Fort  Du  Quesne,  against  the 
French. 

Sir  Hugh  was  then  the  only  son 
To  hand  the  name  of  Berkley  on. 

His  lady — she  who  bears  a  crook, 
And  shepherds  at  her  careful  side 
A  lamb,  while  from  her  eyes  a  look 
Of  mildness  chastens  half  her 
pride — 

Gave  to  the  house  one  child,  and 
died. 

That  child  a  maiden  grown  you  see, 
With  laughing  eyes  and  tresses  free, 
Which  wellnigh  mocked  the 
painter’s  skill : 

It  glows  as  if  some  morning  beam 
Had  poured  here  in  a  golden  stream, 
And,  when  the  sun  passed,  lingered 
still. 

A  year  or  two  went  by,  and  then 
His  heart  was  vacant  as  his  hall. 
No  pleasure  answered  to  his  call, 
No  joy  was  in  the  world  of  men : 

One  passion  only  swayed  his  mind, 
And  thrust  all  other  thoughts 
aside, — 

The  passion  of  ancestral  pride. 

The  blindest  of  all  eyes  most  blind 
Are  those  forever  turned  behind. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


11 


Sheer  to  the  past  he  held  his  face, 
Like  some  mad  boatman  on  a  river, 
"With  eyes  still  on  some  long-gone 
place, 

Until  he  feels  the  shock  and  shiver 
Which  tells  him  he  is  gone  forever. 

The  empty  hall,  or  vacant  heart, 
When  a  new-comer  passes  in, 
Throwing  the  dusty  doors  apart, 
Sounds  and  re-echoes  with  a  din 
Which  makes  the  ghostly  shadows 
start 

And  fly  into  the  dusk  remote ; 

The  webs  about  the  casements  float. 
And  flutter  on  the  sudden  gust ; 

The  sun  pours  in  its  golden  dust ; 

The  phantom  Silence  dies  in  air, 
And  rapidly  from  hall  to  hall, 

With  questioning  eyes  and  back¬ 
ward  hair, 

Wild  Wonder  speeds,  and  mounts 
the  stair, 

Chasing  the  echoes’  far  footfall. 

Thus  into  Berkley’s  hall  and  heart, 
Led  by  his  fancy’s  sudden  whim, 
Passed  a  new  bride, — a  face  to  dart 
Strange  lustre  through  the  twilight 
dim, — 

A  soul  that  even  startled  him, 

Until  he  half  forgot  his  pride: 

Else  had  he  never  stooped  to  em¬ 
bower 

Beneath  his  ancient  roof  the  flower 
To  common  wild- wood  vines  allied. 

Thus  oft  the  passion  most  profound, 
Which  triumphed  over  all  the 
past, 

With  unexpected  halt,  wheels  round, 
And  contradicts  itself  at  last. 

He  took  her  from  a  rival’s  breast. 

The  hot  youth  dared  him  to  the  test : 
Alas  !  he  fell  on  Berkley’s  steel ; 
A_nd,  it  is  said,  through  woe  or  weal 
She  ever  loved  the  rival  best. 

Her  heart  was  like  a  crystal  spring, 
Fluttered  by  every  breezy  wing  : 

Was  there  a  cloud?  a  darker  shade 
Was  in  its  deep  recesses  laid  ; 

Was  there  a  sun  ?  the  pool,  o’errun 
With  glory,  seemed  to  mock  the 
sun. 


Her  black  hair,  oft  with  violets  twined 
(Her  heart  was  with  the  wildest 
flowers), 

Tossed  back  at  random,  wooed  the 
wind, 

That  chased  her  through  the  forest 
bowers. 

The  woodman  felt  his  hand  relax 
A  moment  on  the  lifted  axe, 

As  through  the  vistas  of  the  trees 
He  saw  her  glide,  a  spirit  blithe  ; 

Or,  when  she  tript  the  harvest  leas, 
The  singing  mower  stayed  his  scythe, 
Watched  where  she  fled,  then  took 
his  way, 

And,  mowing,  sang  no  more  that  day. 

With  no  misgiving  thought  or  doubt, 
Her  fond  arms  clasped  his  child  about, 
In  the  full  mantle  of  her  love ; 

For  whoso  loves  the  darling  flowers 
Must  love  the  bloom  of  human 
bowers, — 

The  types  of  brightest  things  above. 
One  day — one  happy  summer  day — 
She  prest  it  to  her  tender  breast : 
The  sunshine  of  its  head  there  lay 
As  pillowed  in  its  native  rest, — 

A  blissful  picture  of  repose, 

A  lily  bosomed  on  a  rose : 

The  smallest  lily  of  the  vale 
Making  the  rose’s  sweet  breast  pale. 

One  only  day, — and  then  the  sire, 
Still  to  his  former  spirit  true, 

Lest  the  young  bud  should  take  the 
hue 

Of  that  which  glowed  too  fondly  by 
her, — 

Of  that  sweet  wildling,  nature’s 
own, — 

And  thereby  learn  the  look  and  tone 
Of  spirits  alien  unto  pride, 

Conveyed  her  to  the  river’s  side. — 
For  nhonths  his  household  felt 
eclipse, — 

And  one  of  his  own  many  ships 
Bore  her  across  the  ocean  wide  ; 

And  soon  in  her  ancestral  isle 
Was  shed  the  sunshine  of  her  smile. 

Ere  half  the  summer  passed  away, 
The  lady  Berkley  grew  less  gay, 

And,  like  a  captured  forest  fawn, 

She  seemed  to  mourn  some  freedom 
gone,— 


12 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Mourned  for  her  native  mountain- 
wild, 

Prom  which  her  feet  had  been  be¬ 
guiled. 

Her  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  dim  her 
eye, 

Her  voice  was  low,  her  mirth  was 
stayed ; 

Upon  her  heart  there  seemed  to  lie 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  shade  ; 
She  paced  the  house  from  room  to 
room,- 

Her  form  became  a  walking  gloom. 

The  menials,  in  their  fancy  wise, 
Glared  at  each  other  with  strange 
leers  ; 

And,  when  shemet  her  husband’s  eyes, 
Her  sad  soul  burst  to  instant  tears. 
He  wondered  with  a  cold  surmise, 
And  questioned  with  as  heartless 
words : 

And  could  it  be  a  woodland  flower 
Would  pine  within  such  stately 
bower  ? 

Or,  favored  o’er  all  forest  birds, 
Could  this  one  droop  with  strange 
desires 

Within  a  cage  of  golden  wires? 

Have  you  beheld  the  mountain  brook 
Turned  to  some  cultured  garden- 
nook, — 

How  it  grows  stagnant  in  the  pool, 
Like  some  wild  urchin  in  a  school 
That  saddens  o’er  a  hateful  book? 
Thus  grew  the  lady,  and  her  look 
Became  at  last  as  one  insane ; 

The  cloud  that  long  o’ercast  her 
brain 

Still  whirled  with  gusty  falls  of 
rain, 

Which  drowned  her  heart  and 
dimmed  her  eyes, 

As  when  the  dull  autumnal  skies 
Long  blur  the  dreary  window-pane. 

One  morn,  strange  wonder  filled  the 
place, 

And  fruitless  searching  filled  the 
day  ; 

The  stream,  the  woodland,  gave  no 
trace  : 

They  only  knew  she  passed  away, — 
Passed  like  a  vision  in  the  air, 

With  naught  to  tell  of  how  or  where. 


Tradition  adds  how,  night  by  night, 
With  hanging  hair  and  robes  of 
white, 

With  pallid  hands  together  prest 
In  pain  upon  her  aching  breast, 

Her  spirit  walked  from  room  to  room, 
As  if  in  search  of  something  lost ; 
That  even  Berkley  shunned  the 
gloom , 

Fearing  to  meet  that  breathless 
ghost ; 

For  some  averred  her  form  had  been 
Afloat  upon  the  river  seen  ; 

While  some,  with  stouter  words,  re¬ 
plied, 

The  maniac  lady  wandered  wide 
Upon  her  native  mountain-side. 


ii. 

THE  WILD  WAGONER. 

In  days  long  gone,  “  The  Ship  and 
Sheaf  ” 

Was  deemed  of  goodly  inns  the 
chief :  — 

“  The  Ship,” — because  its  ample  door 

Fronted  the  barques  that  lined  the 
shore, 

Where  oft  the  sun,  o’er  Delaware, 

Looking  ’twixt  masts  and  cordage 
bare, 

Their  shadows  threw  on  the  sanded 
floor, 

Sailing  a  phantom  vessel  there. 

And  there  the  crews  from  far-off 
climes 

Reeled  in  and  sang  their  rough  sea- 
rhymes, 

With  laughter  learned  from  the  ocean 
gale, 

As  clinked  their  dripping  cups  of  ale  ; 

While  froth  was  dashed  o’er  many  a 
lip, 

Like  foam  against  a  speeding  ship, 

And  tables  chronicled  in  scars 

The  tankards  and  the  thirsty  tars. 

“The  Sheaf,” — because  the  wagoner 
there, 

The  captain  of  the  highway-ship, 

Fresh  breathing  of  his  mountain  air, 

Hung  on  the  wall  his  coat  and 
whip ; 


“  On  many  a  dangerous  mountain-track.” 


Page  13, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


13 


And  farmer,  bringing  his  stores  to 
town, 

And  drover,  who  drove  his  cattle 
down, 

Conversed  of  pastures  and  of 
sheaves, 

The  season’s  drouth,  or  ruinous  rain, 
Or  told  of  fabulous  crops  of  grain, 

Or  fields  where  grazed  incredible 
beeves. 

’Twas  April,  and  the  evening  winds 
"Were  rattling  at  the  open  blinds  ; 

The  sign,  upon  its  hinge  of  rust, 
Made  dreary  answer  to  the  gust, 

That  smote  the  masts  like  an  ocean 
squall, 

And,  whistling,  mocked  the  boat¬ 
swain’s  call. 

The  latch  went  up ;  the  door  was 
thrown 

Awide,  as  by  a  tempest  blown  ; 
While,  bold  as  an  embodied  storm, 
Strode  in  a  dark  and  stalwart  form, 
And  all  the  lights  in  the  sudden  wind 
Flared  as  he  slammed  the  door  be¬ 
hind. 

The  noisy  revellers  ceased  their  din, 
And  into  the  corner  skulked  the  cur, 
As  the  startled  keeper  welcomed  in 
The  feared  and  famous  wagoner  ! 
Not  long  they  brooked  the  keen  eye- 
glance 

Who  gazed  into  that  countenance  ; 
And  even  in  his  mildest  mood 
His  voice  was  sudden,  loud,  and  rude 
As  is  a  swollen  mountain-stream. 

He  spoke  as  to  a  restive  team. 

His  team  was  of  the  wildest  breed 
That  ever  tested  wagoner’s  skill : 
Each  was  a  fierce,  unbroken  steed, 
Curbed  only  by  his  giant  will ; 

And  every  hostler  quaked  with  fear 
What  time  his  loud  bells  wrangled 
near. 

On  many  a  dangerous  mountain- 
track, 

While  oft  the  tempest  burst  its  wrack, 
When  lightning,  like  his  mad  whip¬ 
lash, 

Whirled  round  the  team  its  crooked 
flash, 

And  horses  reared  in  fiery  fright, 


While  near  them  burst  the  thunder- 
crash, 

Then  heard  the  gale  his  voice  of 
might. 

The  peasant  from  his  window  gazed, 
And,  staring  through  the  darkened 
air, 

Saw,  when  the  sudden  lightning 
blazed, 

The  fearful  vision  plunging  there  ! 

And  oft  on  many  a  wintry  hill 

He  dashed  from  out  the  vale  below, 
And  heaved  his  way  through  drift3 
of  snow, 

While  all  his  wheels,  with  voices 
shrill, 

Shrieked  to  the  frosty  air  afar, 

As  if  December’s  tempest-car 
Obeyed  the  winter's  maniac  will. 

Ye  knew  him  well,  ye  mountain- 
miles, 

Throughout  your  numerous  dark  de¬ 
files  : — 

Where  Juniata  leaps  away 
On  feathery  wings  of  foam  and  spray  ; 
Or  queenly  Susquehanna  smiles, 
Proud  in  the  grace  of  her  thousand 
isles  ; 

Where  Poet  and  Historian  fling 
Their  light  o’er  classic  Wyoming  ; 
And  you,  ye  green  Lancastrian 
fields, 

Rich  with  the  wealth  which  Ceres 
yields  ; 

And  Chester’s  storied  vales  and  hills, 
In  depths  of  rural  calm  divine, 
Where  reels  the  flashing  Brandy¬ 
wine 

And  dallies  with  its  hundred  mills. 

Such  was  the  figure,  strange  and  wild  ; 
And  at  his  side  a  twelve-years  child — 
An  eagle-eyed,  bright,  wondering 
lad, 

In  rustic  winter  garments  clad — 
Entered,  and  held  the  wagoner’s 
hand, 

While  on  his  visage,  flushed  and 
tanned, 

A  pleasure  mingled  with  amaze 
Parted  his  lips  and  filled  his  gaze. 

His  hair  was  wavy,  long,  and  black, 
And  from  his  forehead  drifted  back 


14 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


By  the  last  greeting  of  the  gale, 
Where  still  the  random  rain  and 
hail 

Clung  glistening  like  the  tangled 
pearls 

In  careless  locks  of  Indian  girls. 

The  host  with  usual  “  welcome” 
smiled, 

And  praised  the  bright-eyed  stranger 
child  ; 

Whereat  the  wagoner  lightly  spake  : — 
“  Be  all  your  praising  for  his  sake : 

I  found  him  in  the  wagon-trough 

A-swinging  like  a  cradled  thing  ; 
With  angry  words  I  bade  him  off, — 

He  stared  with  large  eyes  wonder- 

ing, 

And  answered  that  his  way  was 
long, 

His  knees  were  tired,  his  feet  were 
sore  ; 

And  then  his  face  new  brightness 
wore, 

And  straight  his  spirit  burst  to  song  : 

I  listened,  and  my  frown  gave  o’er. 

u  My  nature,  like  my  hand,  is  rough, 
My  heart  is  of  rude  mountain  stuff ; 
And  yet,  I  own,  a  laughing  child 
Can  make  at  times  my  temper  mild. 

“I  placed  him  on  the  wheel-horse 
back, 

Where  shoulder- shaken  bells  were 
ringing. 

The  king  of  all  the  bells  was  he, — 

So  silver-clear  his  voice  of  glee ; 

And  there  he  cheered  the  way  with 
singing, 

Till  music  filled  our  dreary  track. 

“  There  is  not  much  I  ask  or  need  ; 
Yet  would  I  give  my  favorite  steed 
To  sing  the  song  he  sang  to-day, 

And  for  a  heart  as  light  and  gay  : 

The  very  team  went  rearing  mad 
With  joy  beneath  his  voice  so  glad, 

As  when  the  steeds  of  battle  hear 
The  wild  war-clarion  ringing  near. 
Come,  my  young  wood-bird,  sing 
again 

That  breezy  song, — that  mountain 
strain.” 

And  thus,  from  lips  of  fresh  delight, 
The  wild  and  artless  song  took  flight.  | 


SONG. 

i. 

Where  sweeps  round  the  mountains 
The  cloud  on  the  gale, 

And  streams  from  their  fountains 
Leap  into  the  vale, — 

Like  frighted  deer  leap  when 
The  storm  with  his  pack 
Rides  over  the  steep  in 

The  wild  torrent’s  track,— 

Even  there  my  free  home  is; 

There  watch  I  the  flocks 
Wander  white  as  the  foam  is 
On  stair-ways  of  rocks. 

Secure  in  the  gorge  there 
In  freedom  we  sing, 

And  laugh  at  King  George,  where 
The  Eagle  is  king. 

ii. 

I  mount  the  wild  horse  with 
No  saddle  or  rein, 

And  guide  his  swift  course  with 
A  grasp  on  his  mane  ; 

Through  paths  steep  and  narrow, 
And  scorning  the  crag, 

I  chase  with  my  arrow 
The  flight  of  the  stag. 

Through  snow-drifts  engulfing, 

I  follow  the  bear, 

And  face  the  gaunt  wolf  when 
He  snarls  in  his  lair, 

And  watch  through  the  gorge  there 
The  red  panther  spring, 

And  laugh  at  King  George,  where 
The  Eagle  is  king. 

hi. 

When  April  is  sounding 
His  horn  o’er  the  hills, 

And  brooklets  are  hounding 
In  joy  to  the  mills, — 

When  warm  August  slumbers 
Among  her  green  leaves, 

And  Harvest  encumbers 

Her  garners  with  sheaves,— 
When  the  flail  of  November 
Is  swinging  with  might, 

And  the  miller  December 
Is  mantled  with  white, — 

In  field  and  in  forge  there 
The  free-hearted  sing, 

And  laugh  at  King  George,  where 
The  Eagle  is  king. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


15 


Some  praised  the  voice,  and  some,  in 
doubt, 

"With  look  uncertain,  gazed  about ; 
And  some,  with  loyal  feeling  strong, 
Condemned  the  singer  and  the  song, 
And  swore  it  was  a  rebel  strain 
They  would  not  calmly  hear  again. 
"Whereat  the  wagoner’s  eyes  of  fire 
Flashed  round  a  withering  look  of 
ire ; 

His  brows  grew  black,  his  temple- 
veins 

Grew  large,  like  brooks  with  sudden 
rains ; 

From  face  to  face  he  bent  his 
glance, 

And  searched  each  quailing  coun¬ 
tenance. 

Thus  for  a  time  great  Henry  stood, 
When  cries  of  “  treason”  fired  his 
blood, 

Till  from  his  quivering  lips  was  hurled 
The  answer  that  awoke  the  world. 
And  thus  the  last  of  all  that  band,* 
The  giants  of  our  native  land, 

The  safeguards  in  our  darkest  hours, 
Our  bulwarks  and  our  sentinel  towers, 
Oft  stood,  and  from  his  cavernous 
eyes 

Sped  to  the  heart  his  great  replies  : 
Far  in  advance  he  fiercely  sent 
The  fiery  shaft  of  argument ; 

And,  when  he  spoke,  ’twas  but  to  tell 
In  thunder  where  the  red  bolt  fell ! 

Thus  stood  the  wagoner,  till  at  length, 
With  voice  subdued  to  conscious 
strength, 

He  spoke,  and  said,  “  Our  eagle’s  wing 
Shall  mount,  the  eagle  shall  be  king  ! 
And  jackals  shall  be  heard  no  more 
When  Freedom’s  monarch  bird  shall 
soar.” 

’Twas  passed,  and  none  essayed  reply  : 
Defeat  or  triumph  filled  each  eye. 
Whence  came  the  boy  ?  was  asked  in 
vain  ; 

What  errand  brought  the  truant 
down  ? 

What  would  he  in  the  noisy 
town  ? — 

Conjecture  but  replied  again. 


The  wagoner  drew  the  host  aside, 
And  said,  “The  storm  approaches 
near, 

And  soon  its  bolts  must  be  defied  : 
For  me  its  thunders  bring  no  fear  ; 
But  for  this  tender  fledgling  here, 
’Twere  well  if  he  awhile  might  rest 
Secure  in  some  protected  nest. 

“  This  hand  that  long  has  grasped  the 
whip 

Must  shortly  take  within  its  grip 
Another  scourge,  and  boldly  deal 
The  blow  a  tyrant  needs  must  feel ; 
Hence  it  were  best  the  boy  should  be 
Removed  a  little  space  from  me, 

Lest  that  the  battling  oak  migfit 
wrong 

The  eaglet  it  has  sheltered  long.” 

Then  said  the  landlord,  as  he  took 
Another  survey  of  the  face, 

“  It  was  no  fancy  made  me  trace 
In  that  young  form  the  Ringbolt 
look. 

Although  your  answer  seemed  to  say 
He  crossed  but  now  your  townward 
way.” 

“  Even  as  I  told,”  the  wagoner  said, 
“  The  urchin,  wild  of  heart  and  head, 
Wishing  to  follow  where  I  led, 
Stealthily  stole  behind  the  wain, 
Breasting  the  gusts  of  hail  and  rain. 
It  was  no  easy  task,  I  fear, 

For  one  so  young  to  keep  so  near. 

For  miles  I  thought  I  heard  the  beat 
And  splash,  behind,  of  following  feet. 
You  well  may  guess  with  what  sur¬ 
prise 

I  met  the  truant’s  laughing  eyes, 

And  how  that  face  of  brave  delight, 
While  in  the  trough  he  sat  upright, 
Put  all  my  chiding  words  to  flight. 

II  All  day  my  thoughts  were  some¬ 

what  sad 

With  too  much  dwelling  on  the  lad, 
Contriving  where  I  best  might  trust 
His  sheltered  head  when  comes  the 
gust. 

For  when  it  comes,  I  must  be  where 
The  thickest  dangers  are  to  dare ; 

And  there  are  cowards  who  would 
make 

The  boy  a  victim  for  my  sake. 


*  Webster. 


16 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


It  was  for  this  I  would  not  own 
Before  these  Tories  of  the  town 
The  child  was  aught  to  me  beside 
A  friendless  truant  wandering  down, 
Whom,  pitying,  I  allowed  to  ride. 

tl  And  now,  my  friend,  I  ask  of  you 
To  aid  me  in  my  urgent  need, — ■ 

To  give  or  find  the  boy  a  home 
Where  present  danger  may  not  come  : 
Bor  this  you  shall  receive  your  due, 
Even  though  it  cost  my  last  good 
steed.” 

The  host  replied,  “  Leave  that  to  me  : 
There’s  many  a  one  comes  here  to 
dine 

Would  joy  beside  his  chair  to  see 
So  lithe  an  urchin  serve  his  wine.” 

<£  Serve  /” — but  between  the  wagoner’s 
teeth 

The  word  was  crushed  to  instant 
death : 

His  brow  grew  black  a  moment,  then 
As  quickly  it  was  cleared  again. 

“  Be  it,  good  landlord,  as  you  say,” 
He  murmured :  “  ’tis  but  for  a  day,” 
And  then  abruptly  turned  away. 

Under  the  gable-roof  the  boy 
Soon  prest  the  soothing  bed  with  joy  : 
A  little  while  he  heard  the  sigh 
Of  winds  like  spirits  hovering  nigh, 
The  weather-vane  that  creaked  aloof, 
The  slumberous  rain  along  tbe  roof, 
And  breathed  the  scent  of  bundled 
herbs 

Close  to  the  waspy  rafters  hung  ; 
Then  heard  the  hour  from  the  belfry 
flung, 

And  then  the  watch  along  the  curbs, 
With  voice  that  warns  but  not  dis¬ 
turbs  ; 

Then  slept,  and  dreamed  of  his  native 
place, 

And  woke  with  the  red  sun  on  his  face. 


m. 

THE  HEIRESS. 

Out  of  the  sea,  and  over  the  land, 
Over  the  level  Jersey  sand, 

Making  the  bay  with  splendor  quiver, 
Flashing  a  glory  up  the  river, 


Came  the  morn  on  its  wheel  of  fire, 
Flinging  flame  from  its  glowing  tire. 

And  with  the  morning,  up  the  tide, 
Through  golden  vapor  dim  descried, 
A  distant  ship  was  seen  to  ride, 
Vague  as  a  vessel  in  a  dream, — 

More  in  the  sky  than  on  the  stream. 

Down  to  the  wharf  a  horseman  rode, 
As  oft  on  many  a  morn  before, 

To  note  the  barques  that  inland 
bore ; 

And  when  his  glance  had  swept  the 
shore, 

His  face  with  sudden  pleasure  glowed. 
He  gave  the  rein  to  a  boy  near  by, 
And  raised  him  in  his  stirrups  high, 
And  poised  the  glass  at  his  anxious 
eye.— 

Long  time  with  breathless  breast  he 
gazed, 

Then  deeply  sighed,  “  Now,  Heaven 
be  praised  !  ” 

And  to  a  skipper  sauntering  past 
He  cried,  “  Unless  my  vision  fail, 

I  know  the  set  of  yonder  sail, 

And  the  streamer  at  her  mast  1” 
The  skipper  then  a  moment  scanned 
The  ship  beneath  his  shading  hand, 
And  answered,  with  a  sudden 
smile, 

“Ay,  ay,  sir:  I  should  know  that 
deck : 

The  same  that  saved  us  once  from 
wreck, — 

1  The  Lady  of  the  Isle’ !  ” 

In  haste  the  rider  grasped  the  rein, 
And  turned  his  restive  steed  again, 
Yet,  ere  he  sped,  with  hand  of  joy 
A  coin  of  silver  flung  the  boy, 

And,  as  he  threw,  looked  down  and 
smiled  ; 

And  then,  as  if  some  form  had  risen 
To  meet  him  from  its  churchyard 
prison, 

He  stared  upon  the  wondering  child. 
He  would  have  spoke  ;  but  gayly 
now, 

Before  the  startled  words  could  join, 
The  boy  was  toying  with  the  coin, 
Twirling  it  in  the  sunny  air, 
Laughing  to  see  it  flashing  there. 

A  moment  the  rider  pressed  his 
brow, 


“  Vague  as  a  vessel  in  a  dream.” 


Page  16, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


17 


Then  dashed  the  vision  in  scorn  aside, 
And  glanced  again  o’er  the  distant 
tide, 

And,  with  a  face  of  new  delight, 
Struck  to  the  rowels  the  glittering 
spurs : 

The  steed  obeyed  the  urging  burrs, 
And  bore  proud  Berkley  out  of 
sight. 

The  hour  went  by.  Before  the  town 
The  ship  came  up ;  the  sails  were 
doft ; 

The  happy  crew,  alow  and  aloft, 
Sang  as  the  anchor  rattled  down, — 
Down  and  down,  as  the  windlass 
flew, 

Linking  the  Old  World  with  the 
New. 

A  crowd  was  gathering  on  the  wharf, 
A  crowd  leaned  on  the  vessel’s  side, 
And  here  and  there  a  waving  scarf 
Bespoke  some  welcome  friend  de¬ 
scried. 

At  the  open  gang  a  maiden  stood, 
Reflected  in  the  happy  flood, — 

Oh,  enviable  flood,  how  blest 
With  such  a  vision  on  thy  breast ! — - 
Stood  like  a  timid,  startled  fawn 
Gazing  where  its  mates  are  gone ; 
Stood  like  a  white  star  in  the  dawn, 
Looking  with  inquiring  eyes 
Where  its  westward  pathway  lies. 

Loud  rumbling  to  the  shore  anon 
A  stately  coach  came  proudly  drawn, 
With  the  ancient  Berkley  arms 
thereon  : 

And  soon  to  land  the  maid,  whose 
hair 

Shed  amber  beauty  in  the  air, 

Was  borne,  and  on  her  father’s  breast 
The  long-expected  child  was  prest. 

The  gold  of  fifteen  summer  suns 
Was  tangled  in  young  Esther’s 
locks ; 

Her  voice,  it  was  a  rill  that  runs 
Half  spray  among  the  flowers  and 
rocks ; 

The  hues  of  the  dewiest  violet 
Within  her  liquid  eyes  were  set ; 

Her  form  was  small,  her  figure  light 
As  is  some  fabled  fountain-sprite ; 

2 


The  aerial  scarf  about  her  twined 
Like  gossamer,  seemed  to  woo  the 
wind  ; 

A  shape  so  light,  she  seemed  to  be 
That  vision  which  poets  only  see, — 
The  spirit  of  that  iris  small 
Poised  on  the  mist  of  a  waterfall. 

Foremost  amid  the  crowd  amazed 
The  truant  urchin  stood  and  gazed. 
His  sunbrown  cheek  and  large  dark 
eyes, 

His  long  black  hair  and  rustic  guise, 
Contrasted  with  the  maiden  bright, 
In  her  auroral  beauty  dight, 

As  if  some  offspring  of  the  eve 
His  dusk  home  in  the  west  should 
leave, 

To  gaze,  by  love  and  wonder  drawn, 
On  some  fair  daughter  of  the  dawn. 

Again  the  proud  man,  in  his  joy, 
Shuddered  as  he  beheld  the  boy ; 

But  the  happy  maid  looked  round  and 
smiled, — - 

Smiled  through  her  tears  at  the  vision 
wild 

Of  flashing  eyes  and  raven  hair, 

And  cheeks  long  tanned  by  mountain- 
air. 

That  smile  went  to  the  urchin’s  heart, 
Secure  as  ever  archer’s  dart 
Sped  to  the  target’s  central  shade, 
Long  quivering  where  it  struck  and 
stayed. 

But  soon  the  carriage,  with  rumbling 
loud, 

Convejmd  the  lovely  shape  from 
sight ; 

And  he  felt  like  a  traveller  in  the 
night 

When  the  moon  glides  into  a  thunder¬ 
cloud 

And  will  no  more  return  to  sight. 

Out  of  the  vessel  came  many  a  box 

Of  Berkley’s  treasures  manifold  ; 
Some  with  iron  bands  and  locks, 

Some  from  the  cabin,  some  from 
the  hold. 

Some  were  carried,  some  were 
rolled ; 

But  one,  with  curious  shape,  to 
shore 

With  careful  hands  the  sailors  bore: 


18 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


They  said  it  contained  a  harp  of  gold 

Of  strange  device, — they  knew  no 
more. 

A  wain  took  up  the  various  load ; 
The  truant  followed  it  out  of  town, 

By  wild,  adventurous  wonder  drawn, 

Along  the  winding  highway  road, 
Where  Berkley  Hall  looked  proudly 
down 

Over  its  river-reaching  lawn. 

When  Berkley  saw  the  hoy  again, 

He  took  him  by  the  willing  hand, 

And  asked  him  questions  simple, 
plain, 

In  easy  words  to  understand  ; 

But  still  the  youth,  with  laughing 
eyes, 

Made  answer  with  wide,  vague  re¬ 
plies  ; 

Nor  would  he  tell  from  whence  he 
came, 

But  answered,  “  Ugo”  was  his  name. 

And  then  the  master  smoothed  his 
hair, 

And  said,  in  soothing  accents  mild, 
“  It  is  a  barren  world,  my  child, 

And  full  of  hearts  as  bleak  and  bare 
As  is  a  winter  heath  forlorn, 

Where  only  thrives  the  tangled 
thorn  ; 

And  when  a  stray  lamb  wanders  there 
Its  sides  are  sorely  fleeced  and  torn. 

What  can  you  to  secure  your  bread  ? 

Or  how  at  night  procure  your  bed  V* 

The  boy  looked  up  with  wondering 
face, 

Which  told  such  thought  had  never 
place 

Within  the  precincts  of  his  brain  ; 

And  then  he  gayly  cried  again, 

With  voice  on  laughter’s  sudden 
wing, 

11  So  please  you,  master,  I  can  sing  !” 

“  A  fair  profession,  by  my  troth  l” 

Sir  Hugh  replied,  “  when  tune  and 
words 

Are  fitted  well,  and,  suiting. both, 

The  spirit  with  the  voice  accords  : 
But  they  come  otf  the  hungriest 
birds 


Who,  so  enamored  of  their  strain, 
Sing  while  the  others,  in  the  grain, 
With  voiceless  but  industrious  beaks, 
Feed  well  through  all  the  harvest 
weeks. 

But  pour  me  from  your  frolic  heart 
A  sample  of  your  vocal  art.” 

His  simple  tongue  no  urging  stayed, 
And  thus  the  call  for  song  was  paid. 


SONGr. 

\ 

i. 

Where  the  peaks  first  greet  the 
morn, 

Where  the  mighty  streams  are 
born, — 

Streams  that  sweep  from  east  to 
west, 

Bearing  great  arks  on  their  breast, — 
Where  the  eagle  rears  her  young 
Barren  rocks  and  pines  among, 
There’s  a  child  which  knows  no  fear, 

In  the  home  of  the  mountaineer. 

II. 

Oft  among  the  forests  wild 
The  lone  woodman  hears  the  child 
Singing  with  the  earliest  dawn, 

And  his  playmate  is  a  fawn : 

When  that  fawn’s  broad  antlers 
spring, 

They  shall  hear  him  louder  sing  ; 
Then  his  startling  song  shall  cheer 
Far  and  wide  the  mountaineer. 

hi. 

Then  his  hero-hand  shall  take 
In  its  grasp  a  crested  snake, 

And  its  front,  so  proudly  crowned, 
Shall  be  humbled  to  the  ground, — 
Hymbled,  trampled  in  the  sand, — • 
And  no  longer  fright  the  land ; 

Then  the  world  shall  thrill  to  hear 
Songs  of  that  young  mountaineer. 

The  listener,  half-way  frowning, 
smiled, 

And  said,  “  Perchance  you  are  that 
child 

Far  wandering  from  your  mountains 
wild. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALL  EG  HA  NIES. 


19 


And  full  of  those  obnoxious  songs 

But  fit  for  rebel  ears  and  tongues  ?” 

“Oh,  no!”  the  laughing  youth  re¬ 
plied  ; 

“  Although  I  come  from  the  moun¬ 
tain-side, 

My  songs  I  learned  from  a  school¬ 
man  gray, 

Who,  when  the  children  went  to  play, 

Oft  called  us  round  him  in  a  ring, 

And,  singing,  taught  us  all  to  sing.” 

Then  Berkley’s  brow  relaxed  his 
frown, 

And  he  looked  still  more  kindly 
down  ; 

For  there  was  something  in  that  voice 

Which  made  him  sigh  and  yet  rejoice  ; 

And  then  he  cried,  “  Come  in  !  come 
in  ! — 

I  care  not  what  your  kith  or  kin, 

Your  face  and  singing  please  me 
well ; 

And,  if  you  will,  here  may  you 
dwell, 

And  be,  till  your  maturer  age, 

A  gentle  lady’s  faithful  page.” 


IY. 

THE  WELCOME. 

Days  passed ;  and  now  from  Berkle}r 
Hall, 

When  evening  sped  her  herald  star, 
Gay  music,  with  wild  rise  and  fall, 
Streamed  on  the  air  ;  the  windows  all 
Shot  their  red  beams  of  splendor 
far, 

Firing  the  dark  like  beacon-torches  ; 
While,  like  a  wedding-train,  there 
flowed 

Gay  coaches  up  the  winding  road, 
Grating  the  gravel  near  the  porches. 

Form  after  form,  in  rich  attire 

Of  gems  and  rustling  garments 
bright, 

Swept  like  shadows  out  of  the  night 
Into  the  sudden  blaze  of  light, 
Gleaming  as  in  a  robe  of  fire. 

The  peasant  on  the  distant  slope, 
Agaze  at  joys  beyond  his  hope, 


Believing  the  world  was  what  it 
seemed, — 

Alas  that  others  should  he  more 
wise ! — 

Beheld  them  glide,  as  he  fondly 
deemed, 

Into  a  transient  paradise. 

Along  the  casements  he  saw  them 
pass, 

As  phantoms  on  the  flaming  glass  ; 
And  when  the  music  awoke  the  dance, 
Like  shadows  they  seemed  to  sway 
and  glance, 

Or  revellers  seen  in  a  dreamer’s  trance. 

Fond  soul,  could  some  kind  sprite 
have  shown 

Some  hearts  beneath  those  robes 
and  gems, 

The  smile  without,  within  the  groan, 
He  had  not  sighed  that,  poor,  un¬ 
known, 

He  stood  apart  in  the  open  air, 

Or  bartered  his  peace  with  the  proud¬ 
est  there 

To  wear  the  wealth  of  diadems. 

On  the  side  of  the  neighboring  height 
He  saw  the  modest  cottage  light 
Gleam,  like  a  glow-worm  in  the  night, 

Through  the  foliage  deep  and  dark: 
Strange  contrast  to  the  splendor  bright 

Burning  in  midst  of  Berkley  Park. 
And  could  the  marvelling  man  have 
seen 

As  clearly  into  that  home  serene 
As  into  that  glittering  hall  of  pride, — • 

Have  seen  the  pastor’s  patriarch  hair 
Bending  over  the  volume  wide, 

And  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair 

Saying  its  “  Amen”  to  the  prayer, 
And,  when  the  evening  hymn  wgs 
sung, 

Joining  with  its  silver  tongue, — 

He  had  not  sighed  o’er  his  station 
mean, 

"While  hearkening  to  that  worldly 
din, 

Nor  envied  the  tinsel  triumph 
thin 

Of  the  stateliest  hero  of  the  scene. 
But  hearts  are  human  moths,  alas  ! 
Fluttering  against  the  glittering 
glass, 

Flying  from  Nature’s  flowery  ways 
To  worship  and  die  at  a  transient 
blaze. 


20 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Within,  beneath  the  chandeliers, 
Wealth,  envious  of  her  two  com¬ 
peers, 

Beauty  and  Wit,  her  shoulders  bare, 
Strode  with  her  diamond  front  in 
air. 

There  Beauty  walked,  too  oft  a  shell, 
A  bower  of  roses  round  a  cell, 

A  casket  exquisitely  bright, 

With  not  a  jewel  hid  from  sight; 
Like  those  proud  piles  by  travellers 
found 

In  foreign  lands, with  statues  crowned, 
Covered  with  all  that  charms  the  eye, 
While  within  sits  Poverty, 

Cowering  in  the  ancestral  dust, 

With  scarce  an  ember  or  a  crust. 

And  Wit,  with  sparkling  glance,  was 
there, 

With  flashing  words  of  transient 
glare, 

Of  satire  or  of  flattery, — 

Thoughts  that  lorded  or  bowed  the 
knee  : 

They  who  lord  it  with  haughtiest 
brow 

Have  ever  the  supplest  knees  to  bow. 
All  these,  Wealth,  Beauty,  Wit, 
bright  three, — 

Graces  they  were  by  Heaven  de¬ 
signed, 

But  oftener  grow,  through  vanity, 

The  vices  that  ensnare  the  mind. 

But  there  was  one  in  whom  these 
three 

Were  joined  in  sweetest  unity, — 

To  all  the  Virtues  reconciled, 

But  chiefly  Charity’s  favorite  child. 

So  bright  the  spirit  her  form  en¬ 
shrined, 

So  clearly  the  face  displayed  the 
mind, 

That  the  coldest  gazer’s  heart  ’gan 
melt, 

And,  in  after-days  of  memory,  felt 

A  kindlier  impulse  toward  his  kind : 
And  it  was  all  to  welcome  her 
The  glittering  groups  collected  were. 

Through  the  crowd,  on  her  father’s 
arm, — 

How  proud  he  was !  how  very 
proud  ! — 


She  passed,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine 
warm 

Cleaving  its  way  through  a  broken 
cloud. 

First  there  was  silence, — breaths  long 
drawn, 

As  they  would  breathe  her  beauty 
in, 

And  eyes  full-orbed,  as  they  would 
win 

New  light  from  her  enchanted  dawn  ; 
And  then  the  sudden  whisper  stirred, 
Like  winds  within  the  aspens  heard. 
The  proud  man  caught  the  applause 
around, 

That  thrilled  his  depths  of  pride  pro¬ 
found, 

Where  it  echoed  like  a  bugle  wound 
Near  caverns  that  prolong  the  sound. 

Then  to  her  throned  harp  he  led, 
Where  lustre  of  gold  and  pearl  was 
shed, 

Like  the  light  that  flushed  the  air 
Around  the  maiden’s  pearl-looped 
hair. 

A  moment  her  timorous  fingers  tried 
The  chords  that  tremulously  replied, 
Like  reeds  beside  a  little  lake 
Warned  by  a  breeze  ere  the  winds 
awake  : 

She  toyed  with  the  prelude ;  but  not 
long 

The  herald  notes  foreran  the  song. 


SONG. 

i. 

What  though  my  feet  have  wandered 
far 

Through  groves  and  lawns  of  an¬ 
tique  shores, 

Where  ever  to  the  morning  star 

The  enamored  lark  her  love-song 
pours, 

And  through  enchanted  woods  and 
vales 

Romance  still  walks,  a  spirit  free, 

Thrilled  by  the  poet-nightingales  : 

I  turn,  dear  native  land,  to  thee. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


21 


ii. 

It  is  not  that  thy  giant  floods 

Sweep  seaward  with  unrivalled 
flow  ; 

It  is  not  that  thy  pathless  woods 
Have  majesty  no  others  show ; 

Not  for  thy  matchless  inland  seas, 
Wider  than  eagle’s  eye  discerns, 
Nor  mountains  vast; — ’tis  not  for 
these 

My  heart,  dear  land,  to  thee  re¬ 
turns  : — 

hi. 

Not  for  thy  seasons,  though  they 
sweep 

From  unknown  continents  of  ice, 
Or,  waked  in  tropic  forests  deep, 
Bring  summer  from  the  land  of 
spice ; 

Not  that  thy  fiery  forest-trees, 

At  harvest-close,  with  splendors 
burn 

In  hues  triumphant ; — not  for  these 
To  thee,  dear  land,  my  steps  re¬ 
turn. — 

IV. 

Not  only  that  my  native  hearth 
Is  shrined  among  thy  greenest  hills, 
Or  that  my  earliest  infant  mirth 
Was  learned  among  thy  flowers 
and  rills, 

But,  chiefly,  that  before  thee  opes 
A  glorious  future,  grand  and  free, 
And  thou  hast  all  my  brightest 
hopes, — 

*  For  this,  dear  land,  I  turn  to  thee. 

To  give  the  words  by  a  maiden  sung 
After  they  have  passed  her  tongue, 
When  more  than  half  of  all  the  grace 
Was  in  her  voice  and  on  her  face, 

Is  but  to  render  a  cup  long  drawn, 
With  all  its  effervescence  gone  ; 

’Tis  hut  to  treasure  in  after-hours 
The  garland  of  faded  and  dewless 
flowers 

That  in  the  flood  of  the  banquet-light 
Made  the  wearer’s  brow  more  bright. 
Had  another  dared  the  same  to  sing, 
They  had  denounced  it  a  rebel  thing  ; 


But  from  her  lips  could  come  no 
wrong  : 

So  they  praised  the  singer  and  the 
song. 

’Mid  those  who  listened,  too  rapt  to 
praise, 

Like  blossoms  that  close  in  the  sun’s 
full  blaze, 

Folding  the  ecstasy  into  the  heart 
In  silence,  lest  the  smallest  part 
Should  exhale  on  the  breath  of  joy 
exprest, 

Stood  one,  a  chance-invited  guest, 
Half  hidden  by  a  curtain’s  fold, 

Too  modest  and  proud  to  be  more 
hold, 

A  youth — the  neighboring  pastor’s 
son — 

Whose  mind  and  mien  had  already 
won 

The  wide  applause  which  oft  exalts 
Till  envy  finds  the  virtues  faults. 

A  student  he  was,  with  cheeks  grown 
pale, 

Long  bleached  in  that  scholastic  vale 
Where  mild-eyed  Meditation  camps 
Among  her  midnight  books  and 
lamps. 

But  as  he  stood  and  heard  her  sing, 
And  gazed  with  charmed  lips  apart, 
The  joy  long  nestling  in  his  heart 
Flew  to  his  cheek  on  flaming  wing. 
So  feels  the  prisoner  when  his  cell 
Flies  open,  as  by  a  miracle ; 

So  glows  he,  breathing  what  freedom 
yields 

That  first  hour  in  the  summer  fields. 

Yes  ;  love,  and  wonder,  and  delight, 
All  three  into  his  breast  took  flight ; 
And  those  who  knew  young  Edgar 
best 

Noted  the  change  on  his  face  con¬ 
fessed. 

Near  by,  with  scarlet  coat  and  plume, 
Like  a  bonfire  in  the  room, 

An  officer  of  the  royal  troops 
Blazed  among  the  admiring  groups, 
Who,  when  his  eye  approval  glanced, 
Or  when  he  spoke  the  applauding 
word, 

Deemed  Berkley’s  honor  was  ad¬ 
vanced  ; 


22 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


And,  he,  too,  felt  a  new  delight, 

And  deigned  from  his  great  warrior 
height 

To  stoop,  and  own  his  heart  was 
stirred. 

Outside,  in  the  stars’  still  light, 

Like  a  spirit  of  the  night, 

Pressing  close  to  the  window-pane, 
With  eyes  of  wonder  and  mirth  in¬ 
sane, 

There  looked  a  face  which  shunned 
the  gaze, 

Coming  and  going,  as  a  shadow  plays 
When  the  wind,  with  rise  and  fall, 
Sways  the  elm-shade  on  the  wall. 

This  with  a  smile  the  maiden  saw, 
Saw  it  come  and  then  withdraw ; 

And  oft  they  knew  not  why  she 
smiled, 

Nor  saw  the  vision  strange  and  wild 
Which  she  beheld  with  looks  of  joy, — 
The  frolic-hearted  truant  boy. 

Thus  oft  beside  a  delirious  child 
The  watchers  see  upon  its  face 
Expressions  which  they  cannot  trace, 
And  where  its  eyes  so  fondly  turn 
They  look,  but  nothing  can  discern, 
Still  conscious  of  a  presence  near 
Of  what  they  cannot  see  or  hear. 

After  the  supper  and  the  wine, 

Where  flowed  the  Moselle  and  the 
Khine, 

And  Burgundy  and  prouder  Spain, 
Disputing,  held  divided  reign, — 

Eor  Berkley  deemed  the  worst  of  faults 
Poor  brands,  or  scant-provided 
vaults, — 

Out  they  sallied  into  the  air ; 

And  the  great  white  moon  was  there. 
In  merry  groups  about  the  green 
They  strolled,  and  praised  the  night 
serene ; 

Here  the  laugh  and  there  the  song 
Waked  from  sleep  the  feathery  throng, 
Nested  in  the  vernal  realms 
Of  the  poplars  and  the  elms. 

Their  heads  unsheathing  from  the 
wing, 

Some,  which  only  the  dark  makes 
dumb, 

Wondered  if  the  dawn  had  come, — 
The  time  to  deck  their  plumes  and 
sing. 


In  the  grove  the  whippoorwill 
Forgot  his  story,  and  sat  still : 

But  all  who  tell  a  tale  of  pain 
Know  well  the  place  to  begin  again. 

Music  on  a  waveless  stream 
Where  the  stars  and  moonshine  gleam, 
While  the  light  oar  noiseless  dips, 
And  then,  lifting,  brightly  drips, 

As  if  hung  with  pearl-strings  rare, 
Caught  from  the  water-spirits’  hair; 
Then  the  music-freighted  boat 
Seems  some  fairy  ark  afloat, 

Filled  with  groups  of  airy  elves 
Playing  to  delight  themselves, 
Blowing  marvellous  instruments, 
With  a  thrill  of  joy  intense, 

Until  the  sounds  that  ring  afar 
Seem  blown  from  many  a  clarion  star; 
Or  as  the  thin  rays  of  the  moon, 

By  some  marvellous  alchemy, 
Were  changed  from  light  to  melody, 
One-half  lustre,  one-half  tune ; 

Or  as  the  veil  of  the  other  world 
Were  partly  lifted,  partly  furled, 
And  underneath  the  soft  notes  born 
In  the  eternal  fields  of  morn 
Were  wafted,  on  the  wings  of  bliss, 
Out  of  that  realm  into  this. 

Such  were  the  sounds  there  heard  to 
flow 

From  off  the  winding  stream  below, — 
Till  suddenly  a  clattering  steed 
Dashed  up  the  road  in  furious  speed ; 
But  soon  the  checking  rein  was  drawn, 
And  now  the  rider  gained  the  lawn. 

And  info  Berkley’s  ear  apart 
He  breathed  a  word  that  thrilled  his 
heart ; 

And  then  from  group  to  group  it 
passed, 

Quaking  the  breast  from  first  to  last : 
Something  about  a  rebel  troop, 

Like  an  eagle,  soon  to  swoop ; 

How  some  of  that  obnoxious  clan, 
With  horrid  noise  of  horn  and  pan,10 
Had  borne  in  mockery  up  and  down, 
In  a  rough  and  jolting  car, 

The  noisiest  Tory  of  the  town, 

And  only  spared  the  plumes  and  tar 
Because  they  deemed  the  honor  due 
To  loyalists  of  deeper  hue. 

And  it  was  said,  and  well  believed, 
And  much  the  king’s  supporters 
grieved, 


THE  WAGONER  OF 

That  many  a  secret  rebel  band 
Was  swiftly  forming  through  the 
land  ; 

Nor  could  the  wisest  well  divine 
The  object  of  their  full  design, 

But  knew  it  much  behooved  them 
each 

To  he  prepared  or  out  of  reach. 

And — who  could  tell  ? — before  they 
knew, 

Some  lawless  and  marauding  crew — 
None  guessed  their  number  or  their 
power — 

Might  choose  in  such  a  festive  hour 
To  burst  into  their  midst  and  lay 
A  tax  which  it  were  hard  to  pay. 

Scarce  was  the  warning  heard  before 
There  was  swift  mounting  at  Berkley 
door, 

And  jostling  hurry  down  roads  of  dust, 
As  if  they  fled  from  a  thunder-gust ! 
They  swept  along  the  highway  white, 
Like  autumn  leaves  before  the  wind 
Which  heralds  the  drowning  storm 
behind, 

And  round  the  far  hill  passed  from 
sight. 


v. 

THE  UNWELCOME. 

Proud  Berkley,  while  his  arm  was 
placed 

Around  his  daughter’s  slender  waist, 
As  up  the  lawn  they  swiftly  paced, 
Called  loudly  to  his  men  in  haste 
To  make  the  outer  gates  secure, 

To  bar  and  lock  the  stable  door, 

Then  loose  the  iron  kennel-check 
From  oft*  the  savage  mastiff’s  neck. 

But  scarce  their  feet  had  pressed  the 
floor 

Beside  the  open  entrance-door, 

When  still  he  heard  the  revelling  din 
Of  some  who  drank  and  laughed 
within. 

Then  cried  the  host,  in  gayer  strain, 

“  It  seems  some  lingering  guests  re¬ 
main, 

To  praise  those  old  Burgundian  casks 
Or  compliment  the  Rhenish  flasks. 


THE  ALLEGHANIES.  23 

This  suits  me  well.  I’ll  bid  them  stay 
And  revel  till  the  break  of  day ; 

For  where  such  manly  mirth  is  made 
No  rebel  band  will  dare  invade.” 

He  paced  the  hall  like  a  generous  host, 

And  laughed  to  hear  the  loud  up¬ 
roar, 

Then  cried,  as  he  swung  the  festive 
door, 

“  Fill  up,  my  friends,  to  a  loyal  toast! 

Fill  high!” — but,  at  the  sight  re¬ 
vealed, 

Some  sudden  paces  backward  reeled, 

Like  a  stunned  warrior  on  the  field, 
And  stood  a  moment  dumb  and  lost, 
Like  one  who  meets  a  midnight  ghost. 
Then  stammered,  “  If  my  sight  be 
true, 

This  is  an  honor  scarcely  due. 

To  what  may  I  ascribe,  strange  sirs, 
The  presence  of  such  visitors?” 

“  To  what,”  cried  one,  with  the  voice 
of  a  gale 

That  laughs  through  an  Allegha- 
nian  pine, 

“  But  to  drink  your  health  in  good 
red  wine 

Till  its  hue  returns  to  your  cheek  so 
pale  ?” 

And  then  the  dozen  sturdy  men 
Laughed,  and  brimmed  their  cups 
again, 

And  drained  them  to  the  hearty  toast 
Of  Berkley  Manor  and  its  host. 

’Twas  hard  to  see  his  dear  old  wines, 
The  heart’s  blood  of  the  noblest  vines, 
Poured  by  a  rough  and  sunburnt  hand 
To  nourish  the  souls  of  a  rebel  band. 
He  heard  the  very  wine’s  heart  throb 
As  it  flowed  from  the  flask  with  a  sigh 
and  a  sob ; 

The  bubbles  that  wept  around  each 
rim 

Looked  with  imploring  eyes  at  him. 

Then  swelled  that  gusty  voice  once 
more, 

As  the  speaker  rose  full  six  feet  four: — 
11  That  loyal  toast  you  left  unsaid, 

To  spare  your  breath,  I  propose  in¬ 
stead  ; 

And  let  the  craven,  who  dares,  resist 
To  drink  the  toast  of  a  loyalist !” 


24 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Sir  Hugh  a  moment  felt  relieved  : 
That  word, — perchance  he  had  been 
deceived ; 

They  surely  could  no  rebels  be 
Who  proffered  toasts  to  loyalty. 

A  goblet  into  his  hand  was  thrust, 
Brimming  and  dripping,  and  drink  he 
must. 

“  Here’s  to  our  royal  governors, 

And  every  man  who  such  prefers  ! 
May  Heaven  on  their  advancement 
smile 

In  their  speedy  return  to  their  native 
isle  !” 

Before  his  sense  the  words  explained, 
The  lifted  cup  was  wellnigh  drained. 
Then  hurst  the  intruders’  laughter- 
roar, 

While  stood  the  host  with  bewil¬ 
dered  brain. 

They  rose  and  bowed,  and  said  no 
more, 

And  now  behind  them  slammed  the 
door ; 

He  heard  them  descend  the  river- 
lane 

With  laugh  and  song,  and  all  was  o’er. 
They  had  come  like  a  sudden  burst 
of  rain, 

And,  like  a  gust,  withdrew  again, — 
Their  voices  dying  beyond  the  lawn, 
Like  rumbling  clouds  when  the  storm 
is  gone. 

Then  in  chagrin  he  dashed  the  glass 
Down  to  the  floor,  a  shattered  mass, 
And  glared  thereon,  till,  laughing, 
came, 

Queen  of  the  keys,  the  brave  house- 
dame, — 

A  woman  tall  and  somewhat  sere, 
But,  like  October,  calm  and  clear ; 
Her  dark  eye  still  retained  its  ray, 
Her  hair  its  gloss,  though  touched 
with  gray. 

She  cried,  “  You  had  strange  guests 
to-night, 

And  such  not  often  you  invite 
Did  but  the  world  know  who  were 
here, 

Yours  would  a  rebel  name  appear.” 

To  which  Sir  Hugh,  with  anger  red, 
“  May  a  thousand  plagues  light  on 
each  head  ! 


I  cannot  guess  what  men  they  be : 

I  only  know  they  drank  my  wine : — 
Would  they  might  hang,  a  scare¬ 
crow  line, 

On  the  next  lightning-blasted  tree!” 

Hulda  replied,  11  Unless  I  err, 

I  heard  a  voice  I  have  heard  before : 
Each  tone  of  his  is  a  clinging  burr, 
That  from  the  memory  will  not  stir. — 
Though  it  is  full  ten  years,  or  more, 
Since  last  I  heard  his  laughter-roar, 
Or  his  great  stride  along  the  floor, 

I  would  know,  though  twice  as  long 
it  were, 

Kingbolt,  the  wilful  wagoner.” 

Then,  in  silence  and  in  gloom, 

The  proud  man  passed  to  his  private 
room, 

And  paced  the  floor,  in  spirit  vexed, 
With  dusky  fancies  sore  perplexed, — 
Thought  of  his  daughter,  thought  of 
his  pride, 

And  of  a  hundred  things  beside. 

But  soon  o’er  his  soul  of  turbulence 
The  quiet  stole,  and  soothed  the  sense, 
As  silence  with  its  hand  at  last 
Smooths  the  pool  where  the  storm  has 
passed. 

But  hark  ! — was  it  the  rising  wind 
Swinging  the  boughs  on  the  window- 
blind  ? 

Or  chimney-swallows  come  anew, 
And  talking  in  the  sooty  cavern, 
Conversing  as  room-mate  travellers  do 
Ere  they  go  to  sleep  in  a  wayside 
tavern  ? 

Or  was  it  some  burglarious  crew, 
With  many  a  stealthy  gouge  and 
scratch, 

Working  their  way  from  screw  to 
screw, 

Mining  around  the  bolt  and  latch, 
With  jar  and  screech,  by  sure  degrees, 
Or  torturing  locks  with  skeleton  keys  ? 

His  heart  beat  loud :  he  spake  no  word, 
But  seized  two  pistols  and  a  sword  ; 
With  cautious  hand  he  oped  the 
door, — 

It  creaked  as  it  never  creaked  be¬ 
fore, — 

Then  descended  the  stair ;  in  his  soul 
he  vowed 

He  never  knew  them  to  crack  so  loud. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


25 


At  every  step  he  seemed  to  hear 
The  noises  more  distinct  and  near  ; 
Now  at  the  pistol-pans  he  tapped, 
And  cocked  the  flints, — how  loud  they 
snapped ! — 

Then  followed  the  sounds  with  breath¬ 
less  care, 

Here  encountered  a  table,  and  there  a 
chair, 

Till  it  seemed  as  if  to  retard  his  pace 
Each  article  had  changed  its  place. 

The  wave  of  every  curtain’s  fold 
Now  made  his  trembling  heart  less 
bold, 

Lest,  issuing  from  the  midnight  air, 
His  phantom  bride  should  meet  him 
there, 

With  wild  mysterious  eyes  to  peer 
Into  his  shuddering  soul  of  fear. 

But  now  he  gained  the  parlor  door 
The  noise  was  louder  than  before, — 
A  strange,  mad  music, — a  grate, — a 
jar,— 

Like  a  maniac  trying  to  tune  a  guitar. 
By  inch  and  by  inch,  he  opened  the 
door, 

Saw  long  phantom  windows  stretch 
over  the  floor, 

Made  by  the  moon,  and  in  the  full 
flood, 

Up  at  the  end  where  the  golden  harp 
stood, 

Beheld  —  and  his  heart  strangely 
thrilled  at  the  sight — 

The  cause  of  the  noises,  the  source 
of  his  fright. 

He  gazed  with  anger  mixed  with  joy, 
As  he  beheld  the  marvellous  boy, — 
Anger  at  the  fears  unbounded, 

Joy  that  they  had  proved  unfounded  : 
One  long  relieving  breath  he  drew, 
Then  gazed  with  silent,  steadfast  view. 

Close  to  the  harp  the  urchin  prest 
And  clasped  it  fondly  to  his  breast, 
Then  softly  o’er  his  fingers  stirred, 

To  wake  the  tones  he  late  had  heard  ; 
Now  stopped  among  the  bass  per¬ 
plexed, 

Then  tried  the  tinkling  treble  next; 
Now  over  all  his  wild  hands  sped, 
And  then,  despairing,  he  shook  his 
head ; 


His  large  eyes,  wondering,  seemed  to 
say 

The  music  had  gone  with  the  maid 
away. 

Then  he  arose,  with  puzzled  air, 

And  gazed  upon  the  pictures  there, 
Marvelling  much  that  such  things 
were, 

All  so  alive,  and  yet  no  stir : 

And  now  he  climbed  into  the  niche 
Where  stood  the  suit  of  armor  rich, 
With  golden  tracery  embossed, 

And  gazed  on  it  in  wonder  lost, 
From  head  to  foot,  with  searching  scan, 
Surveyed  the  marvellous  iron  man  ; 
Then,  with  a  hand  that  nothing  feared, 
The’visor  carefully  upreared, — 
While  Berkley  saw,  with  a  shudder 
of  dread, 

The  horrid  yawn  of  that  iron  head, — 
Looked  calmly  in,  and  nothing  saw, 
Then  closed  it,  having  felt  no  awe. 

Methinks  to  the  angel  of  Peace 
’twould  be 

A  charmed  and  sacred  sight  to  see 
A  child  by  an  offcast  coat  of  war, 
Who  dreamed  not  what  ’twas  fash¬ 
ioned  for. 

Heaven  send  the  time  when  bloody 
Mars 

Shall  only  be  known  among  the  stars, 
And  his  armor,  with  its  thousand 
scars, 

In  a  niche,  as  a  curious  thing,  be  bound, 
And  peered  into,  and  nothing  found  1 
Oh,  would  some  sweet  bird  of  the 
South  11 

Might  build  in  every  cannon’s  mouth, 
Till  the  only  sound  from  its  rusty 
throat 

Should  be  the  wren’s  or  the  blue¬ 
bird’s  note, 

That  doves  might  find  a  safe  resort 
In  the  embrasures  of  every  fort ! 

Again  to  the  harp  the  urchin  passed, 
And  sat  him  down,  subdued  and 
tame, 

And  seeming  overweighed  at  last, 

He  leaned  against  the  golden  frame ; 
His  black  hair  drooped  along  the 
strings, 

Like  a  fainting  night-bird’s  wings  ; 

A  long  sigh  heaved  his  tired  breast, 
And  slumber  soothed  him  into  rest. 


26 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


There,  like  a  spirit  bright  and  good, 
The  guardian  moon  above  him  stood  : 
She  kissed  his  cheeks,  caressed  his 
hair, 

And  filled  with  happy  dreams  the  air, 
Till  the  smile  which  o’er  his  features 
strayed 

The  pleasure  at  his  heart  betrayed. 


Sir  Hugh  approached  the  sleeping 
child, 

And  stood  with  wondering  thoughts 
beguiled. 


How  beautiful  the  picture  there ! — 
The  gold  harp  propping  the  weary 
head, 

The  flashing  cords,  the  shadowy  hair, 
And  over  all  the  moonshine  shed ! 

That  slumbering  face,  it  touched  his 
heart, 

And  bade  the  puzzled  memories  start  ; 

He  had  seen  it  in  a  dream  before, — 

A  dream  long  gone,  to  come  no  more. 

To  keep  the  weary  sleeper  warm, 

He  spread  a  mantle  where  he  lay, 

And  pressed  it  softly  round  his  form, 
Then  turned  with  noiseless  feet 
away, 

And  left  him  there  to  dream  at 
large, 

The  shadows'  and  the  white  moon’s 
charge. 


VI. 


THE  BISING. 

Out  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled 
skies. 

And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife’s  shrill  note,  the  drum’s 
loud  beat, 

And  through  the  wide  land  every¬ 
where 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying 
feet, 

While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom’s  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington. 


And  Concord,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 

Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of.  power, 
And  swelled  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

The  strife  was  loud,  the  time  was 
wild, 

When  from  the  sky  Heaven’s  favorite 
child, 

Sweet  Liberty,  in  joy  descended; 

A  veil  of  lightning  round  her  clung, 
Whereon  thestars-of  morning  hung, 
While  o’er  her  head  Jove’s  eagle 
swung, 

With  all  his  thunderbolts  attended. 

She  came  with  Victory  hand  in  hand, 
Whose  flashing  eyes  and  streaming 
hair 

And  gleaming  robes  and  flaming 
brand 

Shot  splendor  through  the  dusky 
air, 

And  gladdened  the  awakening  land. 

Wild  was  the  night ;  but  wilder  still 
The  day  which  saw  those  sisters 
bright, 

In  all  their  beauty  and  their  might, 
Hanging  above  the  battle-stroke, 
Waving  like  banners  through  the 
smoke 

That  veiled  the  heights  of  Bunker 
Hill. 

The  field  was  wellnigh  won,  when,  lo  1 
From  the  enraged  and  reeling  foe 
Another  charge,  another  blow, 

That  reached  and  smote  the  patriot 
chief. 

Pale  Liberty  recoiled  a  pace, 

And  for  a  moment  veiled  her  face ; 
While  Victory  o’er  her  hero  prest, 
And  wildly  wept  on  Warren’s  breast 
The  first  tears  of  her  grief. 

Alas  !  that  moment  was  her  cost : — 
When  she  looked  up,  the  field  was 
lost. 

“Lost?  lost?”  she  cried.  “It  shall 
not  be, 

While  Justice  holds  her  throne  on 
high  ! 

By  Heaven  !  for  every  martyr  dead, 
For  every  sacred  drop  here  shed 
From  out  the  brave  hearts  of  the  free, 
The  foe  shall  doubly  bleed  and  die !  ” 


“The  gold  harp  propping  the  weary  head.” 


Page  26, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


27 


Such  was  the  voice  that  fiercely  rung 
From  brave  New  England’s  rocks 
and  pines ; 

Such  were  the  notes  that  echo  flung 
Far  southward,  from  its  clarion 
tongue, 

Through  all  the  Alleghanian  lines  ; 
And  every  homestead  heard  the  call, 
And  one  great  answer  flamed  through 
all. 

Each  sacred  hearth-stone,  deep  and 
wide, 

Through  many  a  night  glowed 
bright  and  full, 

The  matron’s  great  wheel  at  its  side 
No  more  devoured  the  carded  wool, 
And  now  the  maiden’s  smaller  wheel 
No  longer  felt  the  throbbing  tread, 
But  stood  beside  the  idle  reel 
Among  its  idle  flax  and  thread. 

No  more  the  jovial  song  went  round, 
No  more  the  ringing  laugh  was 
heard ; 

But  every  voice  had  a  solemn  sound, 
And  some  stern  purpose  filled  each 
word 

The  yeoman  and  the  yeoman’s  son, 
With  knitted  brows  and  sturdy  dint, 
Renewed  the  polish  of  each  gun, 
Re-oiled  the  lock,  reset  the  flint ; 
And  oft  the  maid  and  matron  there, 
While  kneeling  in  the  firelight  glare, 
Long  poured,  with  half-suspended 
breath, 

The  lead  into  the  moulds  of  death. 

The  hands  by  Heaven  made  silken  soft 
To  soothe  the  brow  of  love  or  pain, 
Alas !  are  dulled  and  soiled  too  oft 
By  some  unhallowed  earthly  stain  ; 
But  under  the  celestial  bound 
No  nobler  picture  can  be  found 
Than  woman,  brave  in  word  and  deed, 
Thus  serving  in  her  nation’s  need  : 
Her  love  is  with  her  country  now, 
Her  hand  is  on  its  aching  brow. 

THE  BRAYE  AT  HOME. 

i. 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior’s  sash 
With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dis¬ 
sembles, 


The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 
One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and 
trembles, 

Though  Heaven  alone  records  the 
tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her 
story, 

Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e’er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory ! 


IT. 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband’s 
sword, 

’Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 

And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering 
word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent 
asunder, 

Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 
The  bolts  of  death  around  him 
rattle, 

Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e’er 
W as  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  I 


hi. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 
While  to  her  breast  her  son  she 
presses, 

Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and 
brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 

With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 
To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon 
her, 

Sheds  holy  blood  as  e’er  the  sod 
Received  on  Freedom’s  field  of 
honor/ 


Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 
The  church  of  Berkley  Manor 
stood : 

There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk, 
And  some  esteemed  of  gentle  blood. 
In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Passed  ’mid  the  graves  where  rank 
is  naught : 

All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 
In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 


/ 


28 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


How  sweet  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk, 
The  vale  with  peace  and  sunshine 
full, 

Where  all  the  happy  people  walk, 
Decked  in  their  homespun  flax  and 
wool ! 

Where  youths’  gay  hats  with  blos¬ 
soms  bloom  ; 

And  every  maid,  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast,  like  her  own 
heart, 

A  hud  whose  depths  are  all  perfume  ; 

While  every  garment’s  gentle  stir 

Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 

There,  veiled  in  all  the  sweets  that  are 
Blown  from  the  violet’s  purple 
bosom, 

The  scent  of  lilacs  from  afar, 

Touched  with  the  sweet  shrub’s 
spicy  blossom, 

Walked  Esther;  and  the  rustic 
ranks 

Stood  on  each  side  like  flowery 
banks, 

To  let  her  pass, — a  blooming  aisle, 

Made  brighter  by  her  summer  smile : 

On  her  father’s  arm  she  seemed  to  be 

The  last  green  bough  of  that  haughty 
tree. 

The  pastor  came  ;  his  snowy  locks 
Hallowed  his  brow  of  thought  and 
care ; 

And,  calmly  as  shepherds  lead  their 
flocks, 

He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 

Eorgive  the  student  Edgar  there 

If  his  enchanted  eyes  would  roam, 
And  if  his  thoughts  soared  not  be¬ 
yond, 

And  if  his  heart  glowed  warmly 
fond 

Beneath  his  hopes’  terrestrial  dome. 

To  him  the  maiden  seemed  to  stand, 
Veiled  in  the  glory  of  the  morn, 
At  the  bar  of  the  heavenly  bourn, 

A  guide  to  the  golden  holy  land. 

When  came  the  service’  low  response, 
Hers  seemed  an  angel’s  answering 
tongue ; 

When  with  the  singing  choir  she  sung, 
O’er  all  the  rest  her  sweet  notes 
rung, 

As  if  a  silver  bell  were  swung 

’Mid  bells  of  iron  and  of  bronze. 


At  times,  perchance, — oh,  happy 
chance ! — 

Their  lifting  eyes  together  met, 
Like  violet  to  violet, 

Casting  a  dewy  greeting  glance. 

For  once  be  Love,  young  Love,  for¬ 
given, 

That  here,  in  a  bewildered  trance, 
He  brought  the  blossoms  of  ro¬ 
mance 

And  waved  them  at  the  gates  of 
heaven. 

The  pastor  rose :  the  prayer  was 
strong ; 

The  psalm  was  warrior  David’s  song  ; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might, — ■ 
“  The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the 
right !” 

He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured  ; 

Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of 
flame 

The  startling  words  for  Freedom 
came. 

The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme’s  broad  wing, 
And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 
The  imaginary  battle-brand, 

In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 

Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher ; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir ; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 

And,  lo  !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior’s  guise.12 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause, — 
When  Berkley  cried,  “  Cease, 
traitor  !  cease  ! 

God’s  temple  is  the  house  of  peace!” 
The  other  shouted,  “  Nay,  not  so, 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous 
cause : 

His  holiest  places  then  are  ours, 

His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers 
That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe : 

In  this  the  dawn  of  Freedom’s  day 
There  is  a  time  to  fight  and  pray !” 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


29 


And  now  before  the  open  door — 

The  warrior-priest  had  ordered  so — 
The  enlisting  trumpet’s  sudden  soar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o’er  and  o’er, 
Its  long  reverberating  blow, 

So  loud  and  clear,  it  seemed  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life  ; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 
The  great  bell  swung  as  ne’er  before  : 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease ; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 
Was,  “War!  War!  War!” 

“  Who  dares” — this  was  the  patriot’s 
cry, 

As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came — 
“  Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom’s 
name, 

For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ?” 

A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 

A  hundred  voices  answered,  “17” 


VII. 

THE  WREATH. 

How  sweet  it  is  when  day  is  new, 
And  Summer  is  bathed  in  her  young 
dew, 

To  contemplate,  ’twixt  sun  and  sod, 
Each  miracle  that  tells  of  God  ! 

Thus  Edgar  mused  in  dreamy  mood, 
Next  morn,  on  the  upland  solitude, 
As,  slowly  pacing,  he  gained  the  site 
Of  the  one  great  oak  that  crowned 
the  height. 

He  threw  him  on  a  mossy  mound, 

His  whole  soul  flooded  with  the 
sense 

Of  that  delightful  recompense 
Which  ever  in  the  fields  is  found, 
Which  lifts  the  heart  when  tempest- 
bowed, 

And  sets  the  rainbow  on  the  cloud. 
He  saw  the  river  where  it  flowed 
Under  the  morn,  a  golden  road, — 
Saw  ships  upon  that  highway  free 
Moving  out  to  a  boundless  sea. 

He  saw  the  mist-dispelling  sun 
Mount,  proudly  conscious  there  was 
none 


Sceptred  beside  himself,  to  hold 
High  state  upon  that  throne  of  gold, 
And  thought  of  Freedom’s  glorious 
light 

Conquering  the  dull  mists  of  night. 
He  saw  the  moon  with  anxious  stare 
Walk  down  the  cloudless  western 
air, 

Seeking  the  stars  with  pale  dismaj7-, 
Like  a  shepherdess  whose  flocks 
From  the  fields  have  gone  astray 
Among  dusky  woods  and  rocks, 

In  the  wilderness  to  roam, 

Till  the  eve  shall  bring  them  home. 
But  he  thought  decaying  Tyranny 
Might  search  for  his  lost  flock  in 
vain. 

Those  stars  now  seeking  to  be  free 
No  gloomy  eve  should  bring  again. 

Long,  long  he  gazed  on  Berkley  Hall, 
And  then  on  his  native  cottage 
small, — 

The  one  embowered  in  tall,  proud 
trees, 

The  one  with  its  woodbine  porch  and 
bees  ; 

And  never  before  they  struck  his  sense 
With  such  a  hopeless  difference. 

He  felt  how  often  heart  from  heart 
Are  kept  by  the  mason’s  walls  apart, 
Even  though  the  doors  were  open,  free, 
As  Wealth  can  afford  his  doors  to  be. 

Gliding  along  the  garden-walks, 
Gathering  blossoms  from  the  stalks, 
He  saw  the  heiress  of  Berkley  Hall, 
And  fancied  he  heard  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  the  melody  he  knew  must  be 
Flooding  her  lips  incessantly: 

For  song  was  native  to  her  tongue 
As  to  a  runnel  valeward  flung, 

As  wind  to  a  cloud,  as  mist  to  a  fall, 
As  dew  t6  the  rose,  and  as  sunshine 
to  all. 

His  full  heart  ached  with  love’s  sweet 
pain, 

Like  a  sealed  fountain,  charged  with 
rain, 

That  longs  to  sing  in  the  summer  air, 
Yet  faints  in  its  cavern  of  despair. 

From  plot  to  bower,  from  vase  to  vase, 
Down  to  the  very  garden-base, 

He  watched  her  gliding,  fawnlike 
pace ; 


30 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


The  branches  bowed  to  her  forehead 
fair 

And  shed  their  blooms  on  her  golden 
hair. 

Oh,  what  is  so  like  an  embodied 
May 

As  a  frolic  maiden,  with  laughter 

gay> 

Chasing  her  fancies  as  they  flit 
Out  of  her  heart  of  innocent  wit, 
Shrining  herself  in  the  blowing 
bowers, 

Her  tresses  flecked  with  falling 
flowers  ? 

0  Heaven,  when  I  am  old  and  bent 
And  into  the  valley  deathward  sent, 
Be  the  last  sweet  vision  which  charms 
my  way 

A  breathing,  bright,  embodied  May, 
That,  while  I  lean  upon  my  staff, 

I  may  see  her  smile  and  hear  her 
laugh, 

That  my  heart  may  be  fresh,  till  its 
life  is  null, 

With  the  sun  and  the  dew  of  the 
beautiful ! 

A  tree  blown  bright  with  summer 
blooms, 

O’errun  with  honeysuckle-vines, 

A  very  fount  of  sweet  perfumes, 
Stood  in  the  garden,  where  the  bees 

Toiled  ever  in  these  murmurous 
mines  : 

And  Edgar  might  have  envied  these  ; 
For  some  which  mined  that  odorous 
store 

Brought  back  their  sweets  to  his 
father’s  door. 

Around  this  tree  a  stair-way  led 
Into  the  branches  overhead, 

And  there,  ’mid  spreading  antler- 
boughs, 

A  little  room  was  fitted  well, 
Where  a  votaress  might  make  her 
vows 

Secure  within  her  flowery  cell. 

Such  a  one  there  stands  to-day 
In  a  poet’s  garden  far  away, 

Where  on  many  an  afternoon, 

His  great  soul  full  of  marvellous  tune, 
Cloistered  among  flowers  and  leaves, 
He  sings,  and  all  the  world  receives. 


Lightly  up  the  vine-like  stair, 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  foot, 
Flitted  the  maiden  into  the  bower. 
Never  in  enchanted  air 
Held  a  vine  so  fair  a  flower 
Or  tree  so  sweet  a  fruit. 

She  sat ;  the  flickering  sun  and  shade 
Like  winged  sprites  about  her  played: 
The  wren  peered  in  with  curious  eye, 
The  bluebird  carolled  closely  by, 

The  robin  from  her  nest  above 
Looked,  and  resumed  her  task  of  love. 

The  maiden’s  lap  was  full  of  flowers, 
Culled  from  the  lavish  garden-bowers. 
’Mid  these  her  fingers  gayly  played 
Entwining  happy  shade  with  shade, 
And,  as  she  wrought  the  flowers 
among, 

Her  sweet  thoughts  rippled  into  song. 


i. 

The  blue-eyed  lady  of  the  morn, 
While  she  wreathes  her  flowers  of 
light, 

Knows  for  whom  those  flowers  are 
bright, 

By  whom  they  shall  be  worn  : 

She  knows  the  golden  locks  of  Day 
Shall  bear  that  flashing  wreath  away. 


n. 

Though  she  knows  their  shape  and 
hue 

May  be  crushed  and  tarnished  soon, 
And  the  battle-heat  of  noon 
Waste  their  precious  dew, 

Yet  she  knows  when  Day  is  through 
He  shall  wear  his  wreath  anew- 


hi. 

Would  I  knew  some  hero  now  ! 

He  should  wear  the  wreath  I  make. 
Not  for  mine,  but  Freedom’s  sake, 
I  would  deck  his  brow : 

Should  his  arm  victorious  prove, 

He  should  wear  the  wreath  of  love. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


31 


IV. 

Should  he  fall,  I  would  outgrieve 
All  who  ever  grief  possessed  ; 

I  would  weep  upon  his  breast, 
Overveiled  like  dewy  eve, 

And  above  my  hero  dead 
Pour  my  tears  till  life  had  fled. 

The  music  on  its  golden  wing 
Dropt  from  those  dewy  lips  of  spring  : 
Scarce  had  the  cadence  ceased  to  flow, 
There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps 
fleet, 

And  suddenly,  with  cheeks  aglow, 
Young  Edgar  knelt  before  her  feet. 
She  started  with  surprise — not  fear — 
To  find  the  stranger  youth  so  near. 
He  read  the  question  in  her  eye, 

And,  ere  she  spoke,  he  made  reply  : — 

“  Oh,  lady,  if  I  err,  forgive  : 

I  know  not,  scarcely,  if  I  live, 

Or  that  it  is  my  soul  is  drawn 
By  witching  music,  on  and  on, 

To  kneel  to  thee  in  holier  guise, 
While  its  poor  dwelling  yonder  lies  ! 

I  was  as  one  within  a  land 

Where  all  he  sees  is  dead  and  sere, 
Who  droops  with  thirst,  till  near  at 
hand 

He  hears  a  fountain  singing  clear, 
Then,  without  further  question,  flies 
To  find  the  spring  which  life  supplies. 
In  sooth,  the  music  drew  me  near, 
And  left  me,  lady,  kneeling  here. 

I  heard  the  wish  your  song  expressed, 
And  echo  answered  in  my  breast. 

Oh,  bid  me  wear  that  wreath  you 
make, 

For  thine  as  well  as  Freedom’s  sake !” 

The  maiden’s  lips  no  word  replied  ; 
But  still  the  youth  could  well  de¬ 
scry 

That  there  was  pleasure  in  her  eye 
And  that  her  cheek  was  double-dyed. 

A  moment,  with  extended  hands, 

She  held  the  precious  wreath  in  air, 
Looked  in  his  face  her  sweet  com¬ 
mands, 

Then  pressed  it  on  her  hero’s  hair, 
And  would  have  fled  with  girlish 
bound, 

But  suddenly  a  whirring  sound 


Made  her  light  foot  recoil  a  pace, 
And  drove  the  roses  from  her  face. 

A  winged  arrow  fiercely  near 
Had  lightly  grazed  the  stranger’s  ear, 
Dislodged  one  garland-bloom,  and 
sunk 

Quivering  in  the  gnarled  trunk, 

And  firmly  there  the  angry  dart 
Transfixed  the  blossom’s  odorous 
heart. 

Her  flashing  eye  the  maiden  turned : 
One  hurried  glance  the  truth  dis¬ 
cerned. 

Near  by,  upon  the  gravel  path, 
Holding  his  attitude  of  wrath, 

The  wild-eyed  boy  defiant  stood. 

His  black  hair  in  a  flashing  flood 
Flung  back,  the  quivering  bow’s  ad¬ 
vance, 

The  right  hand  to  the  shoulder 
drawn, 

The  knitted  brow,  the  fiery  glance 
Still  following  where  the  dart  had 
gone,— 

He  looked  the  great  Apollo’s  child, 
Born  in  a  forest  dark  and  wild. 

A  moment  thus  his  posture  kept 
The  young  soul  burning  in  his  face, 
Then  suddenly,  as  in  disgrace, 

He  flung  him  on  the  grass  and  wept. 

Her  heart  was  moved,  her  pity  stirred : 
She  fled  to  him  as  flies  a  bird 
Which  hears  its  lonely  fledgling  call ; 
She  raised  his  head,  smoothed  back 
his  hair, 

Looked  in  his  eyes  of  wild  despair. 
He  smiled,  and  she  forgave  him  all, 
Then  led  him  calmly  up  the  lawn, 
Glanced  at  the  bower, — the  youth  was 
gone. 

Young  Edgar  passed  the  garden-gate 
With  dazzled  brain  and  heart  elate ; 
The  very  landscape  seemed  to  quiver, 
As  if  the  burning  pulse  of  love 
Was  throbbing  in  the  sky  above, 
Thrilling  the  forest,  field,  and  river. 

His  spirit’s  wings  had  sudden  birth; 
He  felt  beneath  no  heavy  earth : 

He  trod  as  on  a  field  of  air, 

And  the  flowers  like  stars  shone  every¬ 
where. 


32 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Down  through  the  grove  he  gained 
the  stream, 

"Which  flowed  before  him  like  a  dream, 
Its  ripples  whispering  to  the  shore, 
And  love  their  burden  evermore  ; 
Stream,  flower,  and  tree,  and  breeze, 
and  bird, 

Were  eloquent  with  that  one  word. 

He  knelt,  with  very  joy  o’erweighed, 
Beneath  a  flowering  poplar’s  shade, 
And  seized  the  coronal  and  kissed 
The  blossoms  (Love  must  have 
his  will), 

And  held  them  to  his  lips  until 
His  eves  were  full  of  blissful  mist, 
Through  which  the  bright  scene 
brighter  shone 
In  iris  colors  all  his  own. 

Then  solemnly  the  flowers  he  prest 
Beneath  the  crossed  hands  on  his 
breast, 

And  cried,  “In  face  of  Death  and 
Heaven, 

This  sacred  wreath  by  thee  was  given, 
And  it  shall  not  dishonored  be! 
Here,  in  face  of  Heaven  and  Death, 

I  pledge  my  life,  my  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom  and  to  thee  !” 

‘ ‘  A  valiant  oath, — and  nobly  sworn !  ’  ’ 
Exclaimed  a  voice  of  thunder  near  ; 
“  And,  if  it  be  no  idle  boast, 

Go  forth  to-day,  and  take  your  post: 
For  hark  !  ’tis  Freedom’s  bugle-horn 
Which  summons  you  from  here  ! 

“  Mount  yonder  steed, — unless  I  err, 
He  will  not  wait  for  whip  or  spur,  — 
And  I  have  one  as  good  beside. 

’Tis  well :  we  both  have  far  to  ride.” 

The  youth  sprang  up.  The  speaker’s 
height 

Loomed  o’er  him  like  a  cloud  of 
night : 

The  palm  on  Edgar’s  shoulder  flung 
In  friendship,  wellnigh  made  him 
reel : 

The  pledging  right  hand  ached  and 
stung, 

Grasped  in  the  wagoner’s  grip  of 
steel. 

“  Our  place  of  secret  rendezvous,” 

He  said,  “  is  only  known  to  few, — 


A  cavern  in  a  wild  ravine, 

Hid  by  the  friendly  oak  and  vine, 
Where  naught  is  heard  but  the 
Brandywine, 

Which  rolls  a  shadowy  flood  between  ; 
A  hidden  place,  that  well  might  be 
The  stronghold  of  a  robber  crew  : 
Of  such  persuasion  are  not  we, 

Save  in  our  royal  tyrant’s  view. 

“  Your  guide  I  cannot  he  to-day  ; 

My  course  lies  far  another  way  ; 

But  there  is  one  will  guide  you  true : 

Already,  with  a  heart  of  joy, 

By  yonder  wall  he  waits  for  you, 
Henceforth  your  friend, — the  frolic 
boy. 

Mount  you,  and  place  the  youth  be¬ 
hind, — 

The  wildest  steed  may  carry 
double, — 

And  in  the  holsters  you  will  find 
Two  trusty  guards  in  case  of  trouble. 

“And  when  you  meet  the  wild-eyed 
dame 

Who  reigns  within  our  secret  place, 
If  she  looks  strangely  in  your  face, 
Speak  kindly, — simply  name  my 
name, — 

That  my  command  has  brought  you 
hence ; 

No  further  it  behooves  to  know  : 
’Twere  well  you  give  her  no  offence : 

She  may  be -  Well,  no  matter : 

go.” 

They  parted,  and  the  youth  obeyed, 
And  when  the  friendly  evening  laid 
Concealment  over  rock  and  wave, 

He  gained  the  river  and  the  cave.13 


PART  II. 

i. 

THE  YOUNG  PATRIOT. 

Three  years  the  flying  sun  and  shade 
O’er  Berkley  Hall  their  change  had 
cast, 

Since  the  wild  urchin  and  the  maid 
Within  its  loyal  portal  passed. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


33 


Two  years  the  invader’s  war-alarms 
Had  waked  the  land,  which  still 
defied, 

And  oft  the  gleam  of  patriot  arms 
From  Berkley’s  turret  was  descried. 

Upon  his  central  roof  a  tower 

Bose  and  o’erlooked  the  country 
wide, — 

A  place  scarce  fit  for  lady’s  bower  ; 

For  there  was  seen,  on  every  side, 
Many  a  cast-off  coat  of  war, 

Helmet  and  sword,  with  hack  and 
scar, 

With  guns  and  pistols  crosswise  hung, 
O’er  which  the  dust  of  years  was  flung. 

And  there  through  many  a  changeful 
hour 

The  anxious  father  and  the  maid 
Through  telescopic  glass  surveyed 
The  impending  cloud  of  battle  lower  ; 
They  watched  it  move  o’er  land  and 
stream, 

They  saw  the  white  sails  come  and 
go, 

And  all  the  flashing  splendor  gleam 
Along  the  bristling  plains  below. 

There  had  they  gazed  through  one 
long  day, 

Watching  an  army  glide  away 
Beyond  the  city’s  western  side, — 

So  far,  the  line  was  scarce  descried  ; 
But  Esther  knew  a  nation’s  trust 
Marched  there  in  that  long  cloud  of 
dust. 

“Thank  Heaven!”  the  loyalist  ex¬ 
claimed, 

“  They  are  gone ! — our  city  is  re¬ 
claimed, 

And  England’s  banner  now  may  fly, 
To  gladden  every  loyal  e3Te  !” 

But  now  a  voice,  like  a  clarion  clear, 
Kang  laughing  in  the  speaker’s  ear  : — 
“  I  saw  him !  and  your  vaunt  is 
vain : 

I  saw  him  and  his  warrior  train : 

Had  you  beheld  that  hero  host, 

Y our  fears  had  not  allowed  the  boast.  ’  ’ 

Who  dared  in  Berkley's  presence 
proud 

Speak  rebel  words  so  fierce  and  loud  ? 

3 


Sir  Hugh  his  hand  in  anger  laid 
Upon  the  handle  of  his  blade; 

But  when  he  saw  the  wild-eyed  boy, 

And  gazed  upon  his  face  of  joy, 

The  vengeance  in  his  breast  was 
stayed. 

Then,  with  a  tremor  on  his  tongue, 
While  something  paler  grew  his 
cheek, 

As  some  retarding  memory  clung 
On  the  rebuke  he  fain  would  speak, 

He  said,  “  Rash  boy,  beware  !  beware  ! 
You  put  my  kindness  to  the  proof. 

Is  it  for  this  my  three  years’  care 
Has  sheltered  you  beneath  my  roof? 

Is  it  for  this - ”  He  said  no  more  : 

He  saw  the  tear,  the  brow  of  pain, — 

A  look  which  he  had  seen  before, 
And  one  he  would  not  see  again. 

“  Nay,  Ugo,  nay!”  the  maiden  cried, 
Her  two  hands  clasping  his  be¬ 
tween  ; 

Her  tender  e}Tes  to  his  replied, 

And  straightway  all  his  troubled 
mien 

Grew  bright,  as  when  the  iris  form 

Glows  on  the  cloud  that  threatened 
storm. 

“Nay,  Ugo,  nay:  speak  out,  and 
say 

The  thin  gs  which  you  have  seen  to¬ 
day.” 

“Him  have  I  seen,”  the  boy  ex¬ 
claimed, 

“  Yes,  him  ! — what  needs  he  to  be 
named  ? 

The  world  has  only  one  broad  sun, 

And  Freedom’s  world  but  Washing¬ 
ton.” 

Even  while  he  spake  that  fiery  word, 
The  stripling’s  stature  seemed  to 
grow ; 

All  his  young  hero  spirit  stirred 
Sent  to  his  cheek  the  warrior  glow : 

Save  the  same  look,  which  knew  no 
awe, 

Learned  on  his  native  mountains 
wild, 

You  scarcely  longer  saw  the  child 

Which  thrice  a  twelvemonth  past  you 
saw. 


34 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


“Him  have  I  seen! — oh,  sight  to 
cheer 

The  patriot  when  he  bleeding  lies, 
To  kindle  hope  and  scatter  fear, 

And  light  new  fire  in  dying  eyes  ! 

“  His  way  with  banners  waved  and 
burned ; 

The  welkin  rang  with  patriot 
cheers  ; 

From  every  window  fondly  yearned 
Bright  eyes  that  spoke  their  joy  in 
tears. 

“  And  music  round  his  pathway  flung 
Its  gladness  in  a  silver  shower, 

And  over  all  the  great  bells  swung, 
Shouting  their  joy  from  every 
tower. 

“  The  snow-white  war-horse  he  be¬ 
strode 

Stept  conscious,  with  a  soul  of 
flame, 

As  if  he  knew  his  master  rode 

Straight  to  the  glorious  gates  of 
Fame. 

'l  The  coldest  gazer’s  heart  grew 
warm, 

And  felt  no  more  its  indecision  ; 
For  every  soul  which  saw  that  form 
G-rew  larger  to  contain  the  vision. 

“I  watched  the  long,  long  ranks  go 
by,u 

And  saw  defiance  in  every  eye ; 

And  every  soldier  true  and  stanch 
Wore  in  his  cap  a  vernal  branch, 

As  Victory  had  placed  it  there 
For  Fame  to  twine  about  his  hair. 

“  Oh,  how  the  wild  heart  sent  its 
blood 

Through  all  the  frame,  a  throbbing 
flood, 

To  see  those  spirits,  true  and  tried, 
"Who  crossed  at  night  the  roaring 
tide, 

What  time  the  grinding  gulfs  of 

ice 

Made  all  the  desperate  peril  thrice, 
When  nothing  but  a  patriot’s  fire 
Could  breast  the  winter’s  bitter  ire, — 
Who  barefoot  trod  December’s  snow, 
And  took  the  hirelings  at  a  blow  ! 


“You  should  have  seen  that  stream 
of  life 

Westward  go  and  eastward  come, 
Thrilled  and  cheered  by  the  startling 
fife, 

Throbbed  through  and  through  by 
many  a  drum. 

“  There,  on  his  charter  fierce  and 
tall, 

A  fiery  stallion  black  as  night, 

His  bold  front  overtopping  all, — 

A  very  tower  along  the  right, — 
With  eye  that  death  could  not  deter, 
His  rifle  o’er  his  shoulder  flung, 
Two  pistols  in  his  holsters  hung, 
Rode  Ringbolt,  the  wild  wagoner. 

“  They  who  have  seen  that  mighty 
hand, 

And  heard  the  swearing  of  his  whip, 
May  well  conceive  the  giant  grip 
That  wielded  the  commanding  brand. 

“  There,  like  a  son  by  his  warrior  sire, 
And  mounted  on  a  steed  as  good, 
His  eye  aflame  with  patriot  fire, 

His  cheek  aflush  with  patriot  blood, 
Rode  Edgar,  and  the  leaves  of  green 
Set  in  his  cap  had  a  rose  between ; 

I  knew  not  what  the  intent  might  be : 
Perchance  ’twas  there  for  memory. 

“  And  after  these  a  hundred  more, 
Obedient  to  the  wagoner’s  word, 

As  fierce  a  band  as  ever  bore 

Through  fire  and  flood  the  aveng¬ 
ing  sword. 

These  were  his  4  mountain  eagles,’  — 
these, 

So  often  seen  a  flying  cloud 
That  sweeps  the  hills  through  forest- 
trees, 

Following  their  leader  loud, — 

A  cloud  whose  form 
Is  a  whirlwind  storm, 

When  on  the  flanks 
Of  the  foeman’s  ranks 
It  breaks  from  upland  covert  near, 
And  pours  its  sudden  bolts  of  wrath, 
Then  gains  anew  the  secret  path 
Ere  it  is  said,  4  The  storm  is  here  !’ 
Pale  wonder  strikes  the  columns  wide, 
And,  ere  the  foe  can  count  his  slain, 
Thundering  down  the  other  side 
The  swooping  tempest  strikes  again. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


35 


“  But  yesterday  I  heard  their  tramp, 
And  saw  their  chargers  dashing 
down, 

Each  wild  mane  like  a  banner 
blown : 

They  swam  the  river,  leapt  the 
creek, 

And  o’er  the  near  hills  gained  the 
camp, 

Bearing  the  news  from  Chesa¬ 
peake.” 

So  spake  the  youth.  The  maid  near  by 
Sat  gazing  in  his  clear,  dark  eye, 

As  if  she  saw  in  its  depths,  anew, 

The  whole  bright  pageant  passing 
through. 

But  Berkley  frowned  his  blackest 
frown, 

As  that  would  put  the  rebel  down, 
And  cried,  “  Well,  sir,  and  is  this  all  ? 
The  picture  you  would  have  us  view 
Is  rare,  and  colored  somewhat  new  : 
Methinks  ’twere  easier  to  recall 
That  barefoot,  tattered,  hungry 
crew 

Quartered  but  now  near  Berkley  Hall. 
The  farmers’  planted  fields  forlorn 
Will  make  a  poor  return  of  corn, 

And  thievish  birds  wax  fat,  I  fear, 
Since  all  the  scarecrows  volun¬ 
teer!” 

And  he  laughed  the  bitter  laugh  of 
scorn , 

So  grating  to  a  patriot’s  ear. 

“  You  know  so  well  how  a  rebel  feels 
Eresh  from  his  sty  of  mire  and 
straw, 

While  dangling,  tangling  ’twixt  his 
heels 

Is  dragged  the  sword  he  dares  not 
draw : 

Gird  on  this  brand,  and  let*  us  see 
The  brave  young  rebel  you  would 
be !” 

So  speaking,  he  took  from  its  place 
of  dust 

A  blade  whose  scabbard  was  thick 
with  rust : — 

4 

“  And  this  chapeau,  for  many  a  year 
Untouched  among  the  cobwebs  here, — 
The  webs  may  serve  you  yet  for  lint ; 
This  ancient  gun, 

With  rust  o’errun, — 

It  matters  not  the  loss  of  flint ; 


A  pistol  or  so  to  grace  your  side ; 

This  old  flask,  too  : — be  naught  denied 

To  deck  you  in  your  warrior  pride  ! 

Behold  you  now !  By  Heaven,  you 
stand 

As  fair  a  rebel  as  walks  the  land  J” 

Again  the  bitter  laugh  was  flung 

From  off  the  old  man’s  scornful 
tongue. 

The  youth  a  moment  glared  in  doubt, 
Reddening  like  one  who  stands  at 
bay  ; 

But  presently  burst  his  laughter- 
shout, 

And,  crying,  “  Then  be  it  as  you 
say !” 

Wildly  sprang  from  the  tower 
away. 

They  heard  him  descend  the  echoing 
stair, 

And  Berkley  stood  with  wondering 
air, 

Listening  with  wide  eyes  and  lips, 
Like  a  traveller  on  Vesuvius ’  top 
When  his  adventurous  hand  lets 
drop 

A  stone  into  the  yawning  pit: 

From  rock  to  rock  he  hears  it  flit, 

Till  the  noises  die  in  a  far  eclipse. 

But,  when  the  clattering  sounds  were 
past, 

Sir  Hugh  stood  with  the  look  aghast 

Of  a  sire  who  has  held  his  favorite 
boy, 

In  frolic,  only  to  fright  and  annoy, 

Over  a  precipice  wild  and  deep, 

When,  with  a  sudden  and  desperate 
leap, 

The  child  is  gone !  and  the  father 
stands, 

Stunned  and  staring,  with  empty 
hands. 

II. 

RUST  OH  THE  SWORD. 

0  happy  and  secure  retreat, 

Dear  Valley,  home  of  many  friends  ! 

I  envy  even  the  hurried  feet 

Which  fancy  through  your  quiet 
sends ! 


36 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


There  led  of  old  the  Cambrian  swain 
His  flock  by  flowery  brook  and 
rill, 

Flinging  across  the  summer  plain 
The  song  he  learned  on  Snowdon’s 
hill, — 

Perchance  some  fragmentary  strain 
Of  ancient  Merlin’s  wizard  skill. 

His  language  now  no  longer  breathes 
Its  strange,  wild  music  through  the 
scene, 

But  here  and  there  a  name  still 
wreathes 

His  memory  in  perpetual  green. 
Tredyffrin,  Cain,  and  Nantmeal  hold 
Traditions  of  those  sires  of  old  ; 
While  Uwchlan,  in  her  inmost  vale, 
May  hear  at  eve  some  Cambrian  tale. 

Though  many  a  brave  ancestral  name 
Has,  starlike,  in  the  distance  set, 
Still  thou  hast  others  dear  to  Fame, 
Forgetful  Time  shall  not  forget, — 
Bright  memories  which  shall  long  re¬ 
main 

Cherished  by  every  patriot  breast, — 
That  of  the  calm-browed  painter 
West, 

And  his,  the  fiery-hearted  Wayne; 
And  in  thy  scientific  bowers 

Are  those  which  fear  nor  frost  nor 
sun  : 

There,  written  with  immortal  flowers, 
Are  found  such  names  as  Darling¬ 
ton. 

Nor  dost  thou  need  my  hand  to  fling 
The  poet’s  offering  on  thy  shrine : — 
Among  thy  vales  sweet  minstrels  sing 
Like  thine  own  flashing  Brandy¬ 
wine. 

From  Kennet,  Taylor’s  soaring  strain 
Rings  like  a  silver  bugle  round, 

As  if  on  that  near  battle-plain 

Some  herald’s  clarion  he  had  found. 

’Twas  midnight  in  the  secret  cave, 
Darkness  and  silence  reigning,  save 
The  dreary  muttering  of  the  brands 
That  flickered  where  a  caldron 
hung ; 

While  dreaming  near,  with  folded 
hands, 

A  woman  sat,  no  longer  young : — 
No  longer  young, — or  rather  say 
Her  first  youth  only  passed  away. 


Her  hair,  as  by  a  wind  thrown  back, 
Was  glossy  still,  and  thick  and  black  ; 
Her  brow  was  clear,  save  where  the 
brain 

Had  set  its  outward  seal  of  pain. 

Her  cheek  was  tanned,  her  eye  was 
bright 

With  something  of  unearthly  light. 
A  string  of  mingled  bead  and  shell, 
Which  seemed  of  woodland  life  to  tell, 
Entwined  her  head,  and  round  her 
waist 

A  costly  wampum  belt  was  placed  ; 
While  on  her  tawnv  neck  and  arm 
Hung  amulet  and  bracelet  charm. 

Her  robes  of  mingled  cloth  and  fur 
With  beads  and  quills  embroidered 
were : 

And  thus  in  her  wild  forest  dress 
She  looked  an  Indian  prophetess, 
With  still  a  something  in  her  face, 
And  something  in  her  slender  mien, 
Beyond  the  finest  savage  grace 

That  ever  marked  a  chieftain’s 
queen. 

There  sat  she  gazing,  dreamy-eyed, 
As  if  within  the  flame  she  spied 
Visions  of  scenes  long  past  and  gone, 
Or  some  strange  pleasure  yet  to  dawn. 
But  now  her  quick  ear  caught  a 
sound, — 

A  stealthy  footfall  drawing  near  : 

A  light  hare  tripping  o’er  the  ground 
Would  wake  her  eye,  but  not  her 
fear : 

Still  through  the  leaves  it  came 
more  clear, — 

Her  hand  was  on  the  rifle  laid, 

Her  quick  glance  pierced  the  cavern’s 
shade ; 

But  soon  the  well-known  whisper 
came, 

Giving  the  watchword  and  her  name  : 
“Hist,  Nora! — hist!  ’tis  I!” — she 
bade 

Young  Ugo  enter  undismayed. 

A  moment  in  his  laughing  eye 

She  gazed,  then  scanned  his  strange 
attire : 

His  figure  brightened  by  the  fire, 
His  shadow  looming  darkly  high, 

The  sword,  the  gun,  the  pistols,  hat, — 
With  questioning  look  she  stared 
thereat. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


37 


“  Say,  Ugo,  say,  where  was  the  theft  ? 
"What  loyalist  have  you  bereft  V’ 

“  No  theft,”  the  hoy  indignant  cried, 
11  But  gift  of  one  who  hade  me  don 
These  rebel  arms,  and  urged  me  on, 
Until,  to  please  him,  I  complied ; 

But  who,  or  where,  or  when,  or  how, 
The  question  matters  little  now. 
Come,  Nora, — you  were  ever  good, — 
I  only  ask  a  little  food, 

And  then  your  helping  hand  to-night 
To  make  this  old  sword  somewhat 
bright ; 

While  on  these  pistols  I  renew 
The  polish  which  is  still  their  due, 
And  from  the  gun  remove  the  crust 
Of  honorable  dust  and  rust ; 

For  well  I  know  the  time  is  near — 
The  scene,  too,  not  o’er  far  from 
here — 

When  every  weapon  we  can  wield 
Shall  he  most  dear  to  Freedom’s 
field.” 

She  gave  him  food  with  generous 
hand, 

And  then  essayed  to  cleanse  the 
brand ; 

And,  while  she  wrought  the  blade 
along, 

She  cheered  her  toiling  hand  with 
song. 


SONG. 

i. 

Oh,  sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  shuttle 
and  loom 

When  the  lilies  of  peace  fill  the  land 
with  perfume  ! 

Then  cheerily  echoes  the  axe  from  the 
hill, 

While  the  bright  waters  sing  on  the 
wheel  of  the  mill, 

And  the  anvil  rings  out  like  a  hell 
through  the  day, 

And  the  wagoner’s  song  cheers  his 
team  on  the  way, 

Till  the  bugles  sound  here,  and  the 
drums  rattle  there, 

And  the  banners  of  War  stream  afar 
on  the  air. 


ii. 

Then  wild  is  the  hour,  and  fearful  the 
day, 

When  the  shuttle  is  dropt  for  the 
sword  and  the  fray, 

When  the  woodman  is  felling  a  foe  at 
each  stroke, 

And  the  miller  is  blackened  with 
powder  and  smoke, 

When  the  smith  wields  the  blade  in 
his  terrible  grip, 

And  the  wagoner’s  rifle  cracks  true 
as  his  whip : 

The  bugles  sound  here,  and  the  drums 
rattle  there, 

While  the  banners  of  War  stream 
afar  on  the  air. 

hi. 

Our  brave-h  earted  yeomen , — our  lords 
of  the  soil, — 

They  reap  where  they  sow  the  reward 
of  their  toil  ; 

In  the  broad  field  of  labor  their  harvest 
is  blithe, 

Their  favorite  arms  the  plough,  sickle, 
and  scythe  : 

The  plough  and  the  sickle,  the  scythe 
and  the  flail, — 

These,  these  are  their  weapons,  with 
these  they  prevail, 

Till  the  bugles  sound  here,  and  the 
drums  rattle  there, 

And  the  banners  of  War  stream  afar 
on  the  air. 

IV. 

Then  the  plough-horse  is  mounted, 
and  flies  o’er  the  plain, 

The  blade  is  flung  by  in  the  grass  or 
the  grain, 

And  the  hand  that  grew  strong  on 
the  flail  or  the  plough, 

And  battled  alone  with  the  harvest 
till  now, 

The  rifle  and  sword  can  as  steadily 
wield, 

Till  the  harvest  of  foemen  is  swept 
from  the  field  ; 

While  the  bugles  sound  here,  and  the 
drums  rattle  there, 

And  the  banners  of  War  stream  afar 
on  the  air. 


38 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


V. 

Be  God  on  our  side  in  the  season  of 
dread  ! 

Be  His  strength  with  the  living,  His 
peace  with  the  dead  ; 

His  love  shield  the  widow  and  orphan, 
His  care 

Soothe  the  parents  whose  sorrow  shall 
whiten  their  hair; 

Be  success  with  the  right  when  the 
struggle  is  through, 

And  the  sword  he  returned  to  the 
ploughshare  anew, 

And  no  bugle  sound  here,  and  no 
drum  rattle  there, 

While  the  banners  of  Peace  stream 
afar  on  the  air  ! 

Thus,  singing  strenuously,  she  toiled 
To  cleanse  the  blade  which  Time  had 
soiled. 

The  dull  stains  clung  unto  the  steel, 
As  they  were  spots  of  murderous 
red 

Whose  stubborn  hue  must  needs  re¬ 
veal 

The  crime  when  first  that  blood 
was  shed. 

She  knelt  before  the  midnight  flame, 
Which  seemed  to  leap  with  pleas¬ 
ure  new : 

She  gazed, — a  chill  ran  through  her 
frame 

As  if  a  spectre  met  her  view  : 

She  saw  the  Berkley  arms  and  name 
Slow  struggling  through  the  veil  of 
rust, 

Then  swooned,  and  sank  into  the  dust. 

But  Ugo’s  aid  was  instant  there  : 

He  raised  her  head  upon  his  knee, 
Called  her  by  name,  smoothed  back 
her  hair, 

Looked  with  a  face  of  mute  despair 
On  hers  of  pallid  agony. 

At  length  a  breath  came  full  and 
deep, 

And  then,  as  one  who  walks  in  sleep 
And  sees  with  large  unwavering  eyes 
Through  veils  of  awful  mysteries, 

She  stared,  and  sighed,  “  0  Heaven  ! 
’tis  done ! — 

Where  fought  the  two  there  stands 
hut  one 


Then  passed  her  hand  across  her  brow, 
And  looked  in  the  o’erbending  face, 
Which  still  its  pitying  posture  kept : — 
“  O  Ugo,  do  not  leave  me  now  !” 

She  groaned.  “It  is  a  dreary 
*  place  !  ’  ’ 

Then  bowed  her  head  and  wept. 

“  Go,  lay  her  on  her  couch  apart !” 
The  deep  voice  made,  the  hearers  start. 
She  choked  the  tears  hack  to  her  heart, 
And  mounted  like  a  wounded  deer 
That  hears  its  calling  comrade  near. 

“  Good  Nora,  we  have  much  to  do,” 
Said  Kingbolt,  “  yet  no  need  of  you. 
Our  eagle  troop  will  soon  be  here  : 
They  tether  now  their  horses  near. 
The  boy  our  sentinel  watch  can  keep, 
So  to  your  couch  awhile  and  sleep. 

“  Unless  the  storm  should  pass,  or 
pause, 

Which  hangs  in  thunder  o’er  the 
land, 

Ere  set  of  many  suns,  your  hand 
May  do  good  service  in  our  cause. 

“All  night  the  well-piled  fire  must 
glow, 

All  night  the  molten  lead  be 
poured, 

Our  guns  recleaned,  resharped  the 
sword, 

In  honor  of  the  approaching  foe  ; 
And  if  it  he,  as  beldams  say, 

The  devil  feasts  when  tyrants  fall, 
Let  his  infernal  board  straightway 
Be  spread,  with  room  enough  for 
all !” 

hi. 

A  BUKIAL. 

Round  all  the  wide  horizon’s  bar 
There  lay  no  growing  cloud  to  mar 
The  brightness  of  the  autumn  day  ; 
And  yet  the  soft  air  felt  the  jar 
Of  thunder  rolling  from  afar,15 
And  shuddered  in  its  pale  dismay. 

Berkley,  with  anxious  eye  and  ear, 
Stood  on  the  southern  porch  to  hear, 
Disturbed  with  many  a  doubt  and  fear, 
As  rolled  the  distant  roaring  in  ; 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


39 


Then  to  his  tower  he  mounted  high, 
And  searched  through  all  the  cloud¬ 
less  sky : 

All,  all  was  clear,  while  still  came 
by 

The  rumble  of  the  constant  din. 

Was  direful  war  the  sudden  source  ? 
Was  it  for  this  the  rebel  force 
Had  ta’en  hut  now  their  southward 
course  ? 

The  sound  his  fears  too  well  define  ! 
It  is,  it  is  the  cannon’s  mouth ! 

Its  awful  answer  from  the  south 
Bears  tidings  of  the  roaring  ranks 
That  crash  upon  the  trembling  banks, 
The  crimson  banks,  of  Brandywine. 

Pale  Esther,  in  that  gloomy  tower, 
Strained  her  sad  vision’s  fruitless 
power : 

On  every  sound  she  seemed  to  hear 
The  shout  and  groan  together  swell ; 
At  every  burst  that  came  more  clear, 
She  deemed  her  hero  Edgar  fell, — 
Fell,  and  perchance  had  breathed  his 
last 

Long  ere  the  death-announcing  blast, 
Speeding  through  miles  of  frighted 
air, 

His  dying  sigh  to  her  could  bear. 

Still  hearkening,  gazing  far  abroad, 
Some  sign  of  triumph  to  discover, 
All  day  she  poured  her  prayer  to  God 
To  shield  her  country  and  her  lover. 

And  Berkley,  listening  to  the  fight, 
Remembered  Trenton’s  direful  night, 
And  that  it  was  the  same  fierce  train 
Whose  lengthy  line  he  saw  of  late 
Pour  from  the  city  o’er  the  plain, 

Led  by  a  leader  bold  and  great, 
Who  now  upon  that  roaring  field 
Might  cause  once  more  their  flag  to 
yield. 

His  heart,  misgiving,  sank  away, 
Shuddering  through  the  doubtful 
day: 

And  should  the  rebels  win,  what 
then  ? — 

The  troops  were  bold  and  desperate 
men  : 

And  he  remembered  with  affright 
The  terrors  of  that  startling  night 


What  time  a  rude  and  lawless  crew 
(All  such  he  deemed  the  patriot 
lines) 

Intruded  on  his  midnight  view 

And  drank  his  dearest,  noblest 
wines : 

His  frame  was  agued  through  and 
through 

Lest  that  wild  scene  should  come 
anew. 

u  Ho  !  gardener,  hostler,  coachman  ! — 
ho  ! 

Each  man  whose  hand  can  wield  a . 
spade ! 

A  place  of  safety  must  be  made  : 
Bring  shovels,  hoes,  and  picks,  and 
show 

How  you  can  ply  the  digging  trade.  ’  ’ 
When  Berkley’s  will  was  thus  con¬ 
veyed, 

Down  came  the  gardener  and  his 
man, 

The  hostler  and  the  hostler’s  lad, 
The  coachman  and  the  footman  ran, 
And  each  his  delving  orders  had. 

“  Dig  me  a  pit !”  the  master  cried, 

“  And  let  it  be  both  deep  and  wide, 

As  ’twere  a  grave  that  might  contain 
A  score  or  more  of  rebels  slain. 

But  they  for  whom  this  grave  is  made 
Belong  unto  a  nobler  grade, 

With  better  blood  than  ever  ran 
In  purple  veins  of  outlaw  clan. 

Their  royal  genealogic  lines 
Come  down  the  Old  World’s  antique 
vines : 

Ho,  butler  !  my  good  sacristan, 

Bear  out  our  monarch  king  of  wines, 
Old  Port,  in  all  his  purple  pride, 

With  queenly  Sherry  at  his  side, 
Followed  by  all  their  loyal  train, 
The  brave,  light-hearted  German 
knights 

Whose  birth  was  on  the  Rhenish 
heights, 

The  well-beloved  of  Charlemagne, 
And  all  those  maids  whose  bright 
eyes'glance 

In  memory  of  their  native  France. 
Here,  give  them  to  their  parent  mould 
Till  peace  has  stilled  this  rebel 
strife ; 

Then  doubly  bright  and  doubly  bold 
Shall  be  their  renovated  life.” 


40 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Sir  Hugh,  thus  making  mournful 
mirth, 

That  poorly  cloaked  his  trembling 
fear, — 

It  may  be  with  a  secret  tear, — 

Consigned  his  precious  wines  to  earth  : 

’Twas  midnight  ere  they  smoothed 
away 

All  traces  where  his  treasures  lay. 


;Twas  midnight,  and  a  moon  in 
heaven, 

And  silence  over  stream  and  hill, 
Save  where  the  lone  bird’s  song  was 
given, 

Or  aspens,  with  a  whispering  thrill, 
Seemed  sheltering  some  young  wind 
benighted, 

Late  from  the  battle-field  affrighted. 
The  moon  which  through  the  window 
gazed 

Saw  Esther  ’gainst  her  harp  re¬ 
clining, 

Her  pale  and  prayerful  face  upraised, 

And  each  eye  with  a  tear-drop 
shining. 

Her  prophet-heart  foreboding  well 
The  fate  which  to  that  field  befell, 
Her  fingers  trembled  on  the  string, 
And  thus  her  prayerful  song  took 
wing. 


SONG. 

i. 

0  God,  o’er  all  this  blooming  earth 
Is  it  with  thine  approving  eye 

That  every  flower  of  noble  birth 
Must  bow  to  poisonous  weeds,  or 
die? 

ii. 

Through  all  our  pastures  must  there 
run 

The  bramble  which  no  fruitage 
bears  ? 

Must  every  field  which  loves  the  sun 
Be  arrogant  with  choking  tares  ? 


hi. 

Must  every  tree  whose  leaves  divine 
"Were  made  in  Freedom’s  air  to 
spread, 

Be  clasped  by  the  obnoxious  vine 
Until  its  boughs  are  sapped  and 
dead? 


IY. 

Wilt  thou  not  send  some  mighty  hand 

To  sweep  through  these  entangled 
walks, 

To  root  the  proud  weeds  from  the  land 

And  burn  the  rank  and  thorny 
stalks  ? 

A  moment  now  she  paused,  and 
sighed, 

Her  hand  still  on  the  quivering 
cords, 

As  waiting  the  ensuing  words, 
When,  at  the  open  casement  wide, 

A  voice  in  patriot  tones  replied : — 

u  Yes,  God  hath  sent  that  arm  01 
wrath : 

It  sweeps  the  land  with  sword  of 
fire : 

The  poisonous  weeds  but  strew  his 
path 

To  build  Oppression’s  funeral 
pyre  1” 

Sweet  is  the  sound  when  pardon  calls 
The  prisoner  from  his  dreary  walls : 
And  sweet  the  succoring  voice  must  be 
Which  hails  a  sinking  ship  at  sea  ; 
And  dear  the  water’s  light  when  first 
It  greets  the  desert-pilgrim’s  thirst, 
Or  from  the  friendly  helmet  drips 
To  cool  a  fainting  patriot’s  lips : 

But  not  more  sweet  or  dear  than  when 
A  fond  heart  hears  and  meets  again 
The  voice  and  the  responding  eye 
Of  one,  the  dearest  ’neath  the  sky, 
Whom  picturing  fancy  saw  but  now 
With  drooping  head  and  bleeding 
brow, 

Or  heard  the  last-drawn  sigh  of  pain 
Which  laid  him  with  his  comrades 
slain : 

Her  arm  was  round  her  hero  prest, 
Her  head  was  on  his  happy  breast. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


41 


IV. 

THE  EIGHT  AT  THE  FORD. 
When  passed  the  first  wild  burst  of 

joy — 

That  bliss  which  harbors  no  alloy, — 
The  maiden  brushed  aside  the  tear, 
And  sighed,  “  Oh,  Edgar,  is  it 
true  ? 

And  are  you  living,  breathing  here, 
Or  is’t  a  phantom  cheats  my  view, 
And  leads  me  up  this  happy  brink 
To  plunge  me  deeper  when  I  sink? 
Art  sure  that  from  the  dreadful  fray 
You  brought  no  bleeding  wound 
away  ? 

Thank  Heaven  that  fainting  prayer 
can  win 

Its  way  above  the  battle-din  ! 

But  tell  me  what  great  deeds  were 
done, 

How  the  red  waves  were  backward 
tossed 

Until  the  glorious  field  was  won - ” 

“  Alas  !”  he  answered,  “  it  was  lost! 
And  we  retreat, — so  deems  the  foe ; 
But  soon  his  bleeding  ranks  shall 
know 

’Tis  but  the  arrow  drawing  back 
Upon  the  stubborn-bending  bow, 

To  deal  a  fiercer,  deadlier  blow 

When  vengeance  speeds  it  on  its 
track. 

11  But  how  shall  I  describe  the  fray? 
How  word  the  horrors  of  the  day 
To  suit  a  timid  maiden’s  ear  ? 

In  sooth,  the  scenes  are  yet  too 
near : 

The  roaring  cannon  and  the  strife, 
With  all  those  whirling  ranks  of  life, 
Sweep  through  my  brain,  a  puzzled 
maze, 

Confused  within  a  cloudy  haze  : 

It  seems  a  wild  and  broken  dream, 
With  transitory  glimpse  and  gleam 
Of  grappling  groups,  of  bayonets’ 
quiver, 

Of  flashing  guns  and  sabre-stroke, 
Caught  through’  the  openings  of  the 
smoke 

Upon  some  visionary  river. 

“  Wrapt  in  a  friendly  cloud  of  mist, 

At  morn  the  wagoner  led  us  out, 


And,  following  our  bold  leader’s 
shout, 

We  put  the  pickets  oft  to  rout, 

Oft  trampling  down  a  scouting  list, 
And  oft  upon  the  foeman’s  flanks 
We  dealt  the  blow  their  startled 
ranks 

Scarce  knew  where  to  resist. 

“  For  hours  we  sailed  from  rear  to 
front, 

And  down  their  side,  from  front  to 
rear : 

Death  and  confusion  paid  the  brunt 
Wherever  we  came  near. 

Anon  was  heard  the  opening  roar 
Which  called  us  to  the  bristling  shore  ; 
And  now  the  fearful  scene  was  won 
Where  deadly  gun  replied  to  gun, 
And  pistol  answered  pistol  flash, 

And  then  the  fiery,  sudden  dash 
Of  hand  to  hand,  and  sword  to 
sword, 

While  in  the  stream,  with  plunge 
and  splash, 

Though  thrice  our  number  on  us 
poured, 

We  dealt  the  thick  foe  crash  for  crash, 
And  strove  to  hold  the  ford. 

“  Now  wras  the  time  you  should  have 
seen 

Bold  Ringbolt  with  his  towering 
mien ; 

Have  heard  his  voice,  have  seen  his 
blow 

Which  drove  the  heavy  weapon 
home, 

Each  stroke  of  which  unhorsed  a  foe, 
And  sent  him  reeling  red  below, 

’Mid  trampled  waters  crushed  to 
foam. 

But,  oh,  it  would  have  touched  your 
pride 

Could  you  have  seen  at  Ringbolt’s  side 
Our  standard-bearer,  young  and 
bold, 

Fighting  and  grasping  in  his  hold 
The  banner  whose  unsullied  fold 
The  foeman’s  rage  defied  ! 

“  But,  sad  to  see,  and  sad  to  tell, 
Brave  Ugo’s  horse  beneath  him  fell, 
The  banner-boy  went  down. 

A  moment, — shall  the  horses’  tread 
Deal  death  upon  his  struggling  head  ? 
A  moment, — shall  he  drown  ? 


42 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


* 


No  ! — Ringbolt  from  his  saddle  leaps, 
His  mighty  arm  is  round  him  cast, 
But  still  his  fighting  posture  keeps, 
His  blows  fly  strong  and  fast. 

“  The  rider  who  survives  must  grieve 
That  ere  his  brave  steed  strove  to 
cleave 

With  rearing  hoof  that  skull  apart, 
He  fell  an  instant  carcass  slain, 
Hewed  wellnigh  through  from  throat 
to  mane, 

Or  gashed  unto  the  heart. 

“No  arm  with  that  great  arm  could 
cope, 

Whether  or  foot  or  fiery  horse  ; 

But  now,  as  with  a  tiger’s  force 
When  battling  to  protect  its  young, 
Upon  his  steed  again  he  sprung, 
While  in  his  hold  the  boy  still 
hung, 

And  grasping,  as  with  grip  of 
death, 

The  reins  between  his  angry  teeth, 
To  give  his  right  arm  clearing  scope, 
There  still  his  blade  of  battle  swung, 
And  on  the  pressing  foemen  flung 
The  blow  that  to  the  invaders  rung 
The  knell  of  many  a  hero’s  hope. 

“  At  last  the  overwhelming  tide 
Of  foemen  pressed  us  slowly  back  ; 
We  did  not  turn,  we  did  not  slack 
Our  heavy  blows,  or  ever  flinch, 
But,  slowly  backing,  inch  by  inch, 
We  gained  the  other  side. 

But  now  was  heard  the  roaring  din 
Of  Wayne’s  artillery  pouring  in  ; 
And  while  its  iron  torrent  flowed, 
Leaving  the  foe  enough  to  do, 
Along  the  highway  we  withdrew, 
To  breathe  a  little,  and  reload. 

“  When  Ugo  wakened  from  his  swoon, 
Gathering  his  scattered  senses  soon, 
He  sought  the  banner  of  his  pride  ; 
He  looked  through  all  the  busy 
band, 

And  stared  upon  his  empty  hand, 
Then  cast  his  eagle  glances  wide. 

1  Oh,  death  !  oh,  infamy  !’  he  cried  : 
He  saw  it  on  the  other  side, 

Beneath  the  invader’s  standard  tied, 
Heavily  hanging,  wet  and  tame, 
Weeping  as  ’twerein  grief  and  shame. 


“  The  hour  was  loud,  but  louder  still 
Anon  the  rage  of  battle  roared 
Its  wild  and  murderous  will ; 

From  J efferis  down  to  Wistar’s  ford, 
From  Jones  to  Chads  the  cannon 
poured, 

While  thundered  Osborne  Hill. 

Oh,  ne’er  before  fled  holy  calm 

From  out  its  sainted  house  of  prayer 
So  frighted  through  the  trembling 
air 

As  from  that  shrine  of  Birmingham ! 

“Oft  through  the  opening  cloud  we 
scanned 

The  shouting  leaders,  sword  in  hand, 
Directing  the  tumultuous  scene  ; 
There  galloped  Maxwell,  gallant 
Bland 

The  poet-warrior,  while  between, 
Ringing  o’er  all  his  loud  command, 
Dashed  the  intrepid  Greene. 

“  Here  Sullivan  in  fury  trooped, 
There  Weedon  like  an  eagle  swooped, 
With  Muhlenberg, — where  they  were 
grouped 

The  invader  dearly  earned  his 
gains, — 

And  (where  the  mad  should  only  be 
The  fiercest  champion  of  the  free) 
The  loudest  trumpet-call  was 
Wayne’s  ; 

While  in  a  gale  of  battle-glee, 

With  rapid  sword  and  pistol  dealing 
The  blows  which  set  the  foemen 
reeling, 

Sped  1  light-horse  Harry  Lee.’ 

And  once  or  twice  our  eye  descried, 
’Mid  clouds  a  moment  blown  aside, 
With  lifted  hand  that  well  might 
wield 

The  thunders  of  the  storming  field, 
The  Jove  of  battle  ride  ! 

And  every  eye  new  courage  won 
Which  gazed  that  hour  on  Washing¬ 
ton. 

“  ’Twas  now  that,  marvelling,  we  be¬ 
held 

Upon  the  rising  summit  near, 

By  every  danger  unrepelled, 

Confused  by  smoke  and  dust, — not 
fear, — 

A  form  with  wild  and  floating  dress, 
Which  looked  a  battle-prophetess. 


“  There  still  his  blade  of  battle  swung.” 


Page  42, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  A LLEGH A  NIES. 


43 


But  when  the  veiling  cloud  went 

by, 

We  knew  the  face  and  flashing  eye 
Of  Nora,  and  we  heard  her  cry 
Of  warning  in  that  hour  of  need  : — 

“  ‘  Speed,  Ringbolt,  to  your  leader 
speed ! 

And  hid  him  know  the  stealthy  foe 
With  double  strength  comes  up  be¬ 
hind  : 

It  was  hut  now  I  saw  him  wind 
From  out  the  valley  road  below.’ 

“She  ceased:  a  short  and  sudden 
scream 

Escaped  her  breast ;  across  the  stream, 
Far  piercing  through  the  veil  of 
haze, 

Her  fierce  eyes  sent  their  staring 
gaze, 

And,  following  that  stare,  we  saw, 
With  soul  of  wonder  and  of  awe, 
Where  Porter  and  bold  Porterfield 
Renewed  the  struggle  at  the  ford ; 
And  at  the  moment  when  the  sword 
Swayed  in  the  balance  where  to  yield, 
In  middle  of  the  mad  melee 
Young  Ugo  snatch  his  flag  away, 
Leap  from  the  hot,  opposing  shore, 
The  banner  tied  about  his  waist, 
And  in  the  flood  plunge  fiercely  o’er, 
By  a  hundred  whistling  bullets 
chased, 

And  soon,  with  wild  ecstatic  hand, 

He  waved  it  ’mid  our  shouting  band. 

“  Naught  dearer  fills  a  soldier’s  sight, 
Or  swells  his  breast  with  more  delight, 
Than  when  his  flag,  late  scorned  and 
shamed, 

Is  by  some  comrade’s  hand  reclaimed. 

“  Another  look,  the  ford  was  clear, 
The  foe  was  reeling  to  the  rear  ; 

And  now  the  smoke  came  deeper  on, 
And  Nora  from  our  sight  was  gone. 
But  still  her  voice  rang  high  and  loud : 

The  speaker  hid,  the  sound  so  near, 
It  seemed  some  spirit  of  the  cloud 
Spake  those  prophetic  words  of 
fear  : — 

‘Too  late!  too  late!’  this  was  the 
cry: 

‘  Fly,  Ringbolt,  Ugo,  comrades  ! — fly  ! 
The  reinforcing  foe  is  here  !’ 


“  What  followed  then  I  scarcely 
know, 

Save  that  we  dashed  amid  the 
smoke, 

And  where  we  saw  a  red  line  glow, 
There  fell  our  fiery  battle-stroke : 

Like  a  mad  billow  of  the  main 

We  broke  upon  those  thundering 
banks, 

Then,  drawing  backward,  formed 
again, 

To  burst  anew  along  their  ranks. 

“  For  hours  the  scene  was  still  the 
same, — 

A  sleet  of  lead  ’mid  sheets  of  flame ; 

The  hot  hail  round  us  hissed  and 
roared, 

Through  clouds  of  seething  sulphur 
poured, 

Until — we  knew  not  how  or  why — 

The  day  was  lost !  Our  saddened 
view 

Between  the  smoke-wreaths’  opening 
wrack 

Beheld  the  patriots  falling  back  : 

The  hour  of  victory  had  gone  by  ! 

Still  fighting,  we  our  line  withdrew, 
Scorning  to  yield  or  fly. 

“And  now  we  gained  a  sheltering 
wood, 

Where  (oh,  it  was  a  sight  to  whet 
The  sword  of  vengeance  keener 
yet!), 

Pale  with  the  streaming  loss  of  blood, 
By  hireling  foemen  still  beset, 

Beside  his  foaming  charger  stood 
The  wounded,  gallant  Lafayette. 

“We  swept  between,  with  scathing 
blow, 

Until  his  bleeding  wound  was 
bound : 

Each  drop  of  his  the  cloven  foe 
Paid  double  to  the  crimson  ground, 

Until  from  off  that  field  forlorn 

The  noblest  son  of  France  was  borne. 

“But,  oh,  the  sight,  the  last  and 
worst, 

That  now  upon  my  vision  burst ! — 

I  saw,  beyond  a  thicket-screen, 

Pale  Nora  o’er  a  warrior  lean; 


44 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  A  L  LEG  HA  NIES. 


His  head  upon  her  knee  she  nursed, 
And  held  unto  his  fainting  lip 
The  can  he  scarce  had  strength  to 
sip. 

A  few  swift  leaps,  we  gained  the  place. 
Oh,  be  the  hireling  doubly  cursed 
Who  caused  that  noble  breast  to 
groan ! 

It  was  my  father’s  upturned  face 
Which  looked  into  my  own. 

41 1  Nay,  son,’  he  faintly  sighed,  the 
while 

His  features  wore  a  struggling  smile, 
4  Be  not  dismayed,  ’twill  pass  anon  : 

’Tis  but  a  little  loss  of  blood : 

I  am  content :  my  hand  has  done 
On  many  a  foeman  work  as  good  ; 
And  some,  metbinks,  will  never  tell 
Beneath  what  old  man’s  sword  they 
fell. 

But  bear  me  hence :  this  trifling 
wound - ’ 

Then  in  my  circling  arms  he  swooned. 
Nay,  start  not:  still  it  was  not 
death, — 

His  breast  anon  recalled  his  breath. 

41  We  made  a  couch  of  fallen  boughs, 
Which  thickly  strewed  the  wood¬ 
land  path, 

Torn  by  the  cannon’s  flying  wrath, 
And,  with  such  speed  as  pain  allows, 
Conveyed  him  to  the  cavern,  where 
He  rests  in  Nora’s  watchful  care ; 
Then,  with  the  moon  to  light  my  way, 
I  rode  to  tell  how  went  the  day.” 


y. 

THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  red  October  by  his  tent 

Sits  painted  in  his  warrior-hues  ; 
Beside  him  lies,  in  peace  unbent, 

The  bow  which  he  too  soon  will  use. 

O’er  all  the  hill-sides  near  and  far 
He  sees  the  wigwam-smoke  dis¬ 
pread  ; 

There  all  his  waiting  warriors  are, 
Streaked  with  their  many  tints  of 
red. 


Through  all  the  realm  of  elm  and  oak 
The  blue  wreaths  of  their  pipes 
increase : 

Alas  !  the  calumets  they  smoke 
Are  not  the  sacred  pipes  of  peace ! 

They  plan  around  their  council-fire 
The  ambush  on  to-morrow’s  track; 
They  do  but  wait  their  warrior-sire 
To  give  the  signal  of  attack. 

The  smile  upon  his  lip  to-day, 

The  dream-light  in  his  plotting  eye, 
Are  but  prophetic  signs  to  say 

How  fierce  the  arrow-storm  shall  fly. 

Thus  Esther  mused,  as  from  her  tower 
She  gazed  o’er  misty  stream  and 
land : 

She  knew  ’twas  but  War’s  breathing- 
hour 

Ere  he  again,  in  all  his  power, 

Should  wave  his  flashing  battle- 
brand. 

Even  there,  beneath  her  very  gaze, 
The  invader’s  bristling  lines  were 
spread, 

Wrapt  in  the  calm  October  haze, 
And,  like  the  Indian  autumn,  red. 
From  Delaware  their  scarlet  ranks 
Beached  even  to  the  Schuylkill  banks, 
So  near  the  very  mansion-wall 
Echoed  the  frequent  bugle-call, — 

A  sight  to  make  a  young  heart  sad/ 
And  all  her  patriot  hopes  destroy, — 
While  Berkley’s  loyal  breast  was  mad 
With  uncontrolled  bursts  of  joy. 

He  gave  the  invaders  every  proof 
How  much  his  wishes  wdth  them 
lay  : 

Their  flag  was  waving  on  his  roof, 
His  halls  received  them  night  and 
day ; 

He  even  broached  his  buried  store, 
And  brought  a  dozen  hampers  out, 
Willing  with  generous  hand  to  pour, 
Bepaid  by  loyal  song  and  shout. 

But  one  there  was  whose  bowing 
plume 

Was  chiefly  welcome  to  Sir  Hugh, 
And  once  before  that  banquet-room 
Had  felt  his  presence  through  and 
through, — 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


45 


The  same  who  on  that  long-gone 
night 

The  maiden’s  swelling  song  had 
heard, 

Who  deigned  from  his  great  warrior- 
height 

To  stoop,  and  own  his  heart  was 
stirred. 

Now  oft  in  Berkley’s  ear  apart 

He  spoke  about  the  maiden’s  hand  : 
“  The  heiress  of  such  noble  land, 
Sir  Hugh,  should  have  a  noble  heart.” 
And  once,  with  condescending  lips, 
He  bowed  and  kissed  her  finger-tips, — 
Sufficient  such  approving  sign 
From  colonel  of  the  royal  line. 

Thus  passed  a  few  calm  days  away  ; 
And  now  the  night  was  not  yet  gone, 
Its  dreamy  veil  but  half  withdrawn, 
Fair  Esther  on  her  white  couch  lay, 
Her  soft  light  melting  through  the 
shade ; 

Her  cheek  against  her  hand  was  laid, 
Bound  which  the  dainty  flaxen  curls 
Were  cast  in  little  golden  whirls, 

As  Love’s  own  toying  fingers  light 
Had  twirled  them  o’er  the  pillow 
white. 

That  rounded  arm,  that  angel  face, 
The  breast  that  stirred  the  snowy 
frills. 

The  whole  light  form  of  perfect  grace, 
Which  the  soft  covering  seemed  to 
trace 

As  loving  it  with  warm  embrace, — 
All  this  the  conjuring  fancy  thrills  ; 
Thrills  with  a  sense  of  sweet  restraint, 
As  when  before  some  sculptured  saint, 
Or  lovely  vision  poured  in  paint 
By  some  pure  master,  when  his  heart 
Was  molten  with  the  fire  of  art. 

Across  her  face  strange  shadows 
played, 

As  if  by  struggling  pinions  made ; 
For  she  was  dreaming  of  the  fray, 
Watching,  amid  the  smoke- wreaths 
dun, 

Her  Edgar  bravely  battling  on, 

The  fiercest  hero  of  the  day. 

She  saw  him  riding  midst  the  din 
That  raged  around  the  Warren  Inn, 


And  on  Paoli’s  fearful  plain, 

When  Massacre  the  sword  had 
drawn. 

The  trumpet’s  near  and  startling 
strain, 

That  fiercely  shook  the  cloudy 
dawn, 

The  drums  that  rolled  their  loud 
alarms, 

And  legions  springing  up  to  arms, 
Flashed  through  her  dream,  and, 
when  she  woke, 

Upon  her  ear  the  tumult  broke ! 

Leaders  were  hurrying  to  and  fro,  • 
Proclaiming  far,  “  The  foe  !  the  foe  !” 
“  The  foe  !  the  foe  !”  rang  over  all, 
And  woke  the  echoes  of  Berkley 

Hall. 

When  Esther  looked  from  her  case¬ 
ment  high, 

Fear  trembling  in  her  large  blue 
eye, 

She  stared  against  the  vapor  dank 
Of  morning  hanging  gray  and  blank.16 

Great  wrestling  voices  in  the  cloud, 
Made  by  the  mist  more  clear  and 
loud, 

Appalled  her  ear ;  the  sudden  roar 
Of  swift  artillery  shook  the  shore  ; 
While  here  and  there  the  half-blurred 
flash 

Burned,  and  every  window-sash 
Answered  to  the  thunder-crash. 

t 

Anon  she  saw  some  warrior-form, 
Like  the  great  genii  of  the  storm, 
Kise  into  shadowy  giant  height, 

And  then  another  of  equal  might, 
And  now  the  followers  swung  in 
sight, 

Wielding  great  arms, — as  oak  with 
oak 

Were  battling  in  the  hill-side  smoke ; 
Or  armies  of  the  infernal  god, 

With  lightning  and  with  thunder 
shod, 

Were  wielding  their  gigantic  blades 
Against  the  crests  of  kindred  shades  ; 
Or,  rather,  as  some  pale,  strange  light 
Were  shining  on  some  unseen  fight, 
And  these  the  shadows  fierce  and  tall 
It  threw  upon  a  cold  gray  wall, 
Struggling  in  many  a  rise  and  fall. 


46 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


A  scene  of  horror  clear  descried 
Must  make  the  stoutest  spirit  quail ; 
But  horrors  doubly  magnified 
Behind  a  half-concealing  veil 
May  well  make  maiden’s  cheek  grow 
pale. 


One  deep,  renewing  breath  she  draws  : 
She  scorns  the  weakness  thus  dis¬ 
played, 

Contemns  the  soul  that  now  would 
pause, 

And  gains  her  feet,  no  more  afraid. 


She  watched  the  sun  rise  o’er  the  field, 
A  great  disk  like  a  bloody  shield, 
And  ’gainst  it  rose  a  vision  dim, 
Made  clearer  by  that  burning  rim, 
Two  plunging  riders  huge  and  grim  ; 
Their  fiery  chargers  seemed  to  swim 
Together  in  the  wild  commotion, 
Like  war-barques  in  a  roaring 
ocean. 

But  who  is  he,  that  warrior  slim, 
Now  lost  to  sight,  and  now  more 
plain  ? 

The  agile  form  proclaims  it  him 
The  object  of  her  heart’s  devotion. 
But,  see  1 — oh,  monstrous  ! — even  the 
sun 

Burns  redder,  beholding  three  to 


one, — 

Three  striking  and  one  parrying ! 
Now, 

Doubling  the  tumult  of  the  scene, 
Another  giant  swings  between  ! 
Swift  flash  the  blades  around  his 
brow, 

Like  lightning  o’er  some  rocky  crest, 
Drawn  by  the  metal  in  its  breast : 
But,  like  the  storm-defying  rock, 
Harmless  about  him  breaks  the  shock  ; 
The  battle-clouds,  confused  and  rent, 
Are  backward  hurled,  their  thunders 
spent. 


Still  side  by  side  the  heroes  fight, 
Following  the  foe  from  left  to  right; 
Swift  flies  the  Wagoner’s  whirling 
blade, 

And  Edgar’s  is  its  very  shade. 


See  how  they  rear,  and  plunge,  and 
smite, 

And,  fighting  still,  wheel  out  of 
sight. 

Her  throbbing  eyes  can  hear  no  more : 
She  sinks,  half  fainting,  to  the  floor. 

But  no  !  her  heart  is  with  the  cause : 
Shall  she  thus  sink  away  dismayed 
The  while  her  Edgar’s  flaming  blade 
Is  flashing  even  as  she  hade? 


Before  his  door,  with  sword  in  hand, 
Sir  Hugh  was  making  warlike  stand, 
When  a  troop  of  loyalists  came  by, 
Uncertain  if  to  fight  or  fly: 

Such  contradictory  news  was  tossed 

Through  fogs  that  veiled  the  battle- 
din, 

They  dared  not  say  which  side 
would  win, 

But  to  their  secret  hearts  within 
They  owned  the  dreadful  day  was  lost. 

One  glance  at  Berkley  Hall  they  threw, 
And  saw  the  flag  which  o’er  it  flew : 

“  Ho,  sirrah  rebel !  who  are  you  ?” 
They  cried,  and  trooped  around  Sir 
Hugh. 

“  Rebel !”  he  echoed,  in  disdain  : 

“  Who  dares  such  words  apply  again, 
This  hand  shall  drive  the  lying  breath 
Back  to  his  throat  through  bleeding 
teeth  ; 

This  sword  shall  cleave  the  caitiff1 
through 

Who  dares  that  insult  to  renew.” 

“  Ho  !  ho  1”  they  cried, — “a  prize!  a 
prize  ! 

The  rebel  dog,  through  fear  and 
shame, 

Would  skulk  beneath  a  loyal  name  ; 
But  where  yon  rag  insults  the  skies 

We  know  full  well  our  right  to 
claim.” 

“That  rag?  Insult?” — He  choked 
with  ire ; 

He  said  no  more  ;  his  eye  of  fire 
Flashed  confidently  o’er  the  roof, 
When — oh,  the  staggering,  deadly 
proof ! 

His  heart,  as  from  a  towering  crag, 
Fell  back,  as  stunned  in  dismal 
plight. 

Where  now  his  valiant  soul  of 
might, 

The  spirit  never  known  to  lag? 
There,  sailing  on  the  winds  aloof, 

He  saw  the  hated  patriot  flag, 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALL  EG  HA  NIES. 


47 


"While  Ugo’s  clear  and  ringing  voice 
Flung  from  the  watch-tower  far 
and  free — 

Making  the  misty  air  rejoice — 

The  fiery  shout  of  Victory. 

Bold  Berkley  stood  with  wonder 
dumb, 

Confused,  as  dead  to  sight  and 
sound  ; 

But,  when  he  felt  his  senses  come, 

He  chafed  to  find  his  arms  were 
hound ; 

And  then,  with  high,  indignant 
mien, 

Mounted  two  surly  guards  between, 

He  left  with  threatening  brow  the 
scene. 


Sir  Hugh  long  cursed  the  fatal  hour 
Which  saw  that  flag  upon  his  tower  : 
Oh,  sad  mischance  that  placed  it 
there 

In  that  wild  moment  when  despair 
W as  trembling  down  the  royal  line, — 
When  Victory,  with  her  thrusting 
hand, 

Through  blinding  fogs,  strove  to  con¬ 
sign 

o 

Her  laurel  to  the  patriot  band  !  17 
And  Berkley,  ready  for  the  field, 

At  his  own  door,  with  waving 
sword, 

Stood  threatening  with  defiant  word 
The  loyal  troop  which  bade  him  yield. 
And,  further,  his  accusers  knew 
That  members  of  the  obnoxious  crew 
At  all  hours,  day  and  night,  had  been 
Prowling  round  Berkley  Manor  seen. 

All  these  were  ominous  proofs  and 
black 

Which  gathered  on  his  troubled  track : 
No  word  of  his  could  move  the  shade 
Upon  his  loyal  honor  laid. 


Some  favor  still  the  doubt  received  : 
They  would  not  touch  his  land  or 
hall ; 

His  daughter  might  retain  them 
all. 

This  but  in  part  his  pain  relieved  : 
His  fancy  saw  marauding  bands 
Insult  his  house,  o’errun  his  lands  : 
His  daughter,  too, — might  she  not  be 
Subject  to  rough  brutality? 


His  fears  were  vain :  his  mansion 
through, 

When  the  withdrawing  troop  went 
down 

To  hold  their  quarter  in  the  town, 
Was  guarded  better  than  he  knew. 


vi. 

HEADQUARTEKS. 

O’er  town  and  cottage,  vale  and 
height, 

Down  came  the  Winter,  fierce  and 
white, 

And  shuddering  wildly,  as  distraught 
At  horrors  his  own  hand  had  wrought. 

His  child,  the  young  Year,  newly 
born, 

Cheerless,  cowering,  and  affrighted, 
Wailed  with  a  shivering  voice  forlorn, 
As  on  a  frozen  heath  benighted. 

In  vain  the  hearths  were  set  aglow, 
In  vain  the  evening  lamps  were 
lighted, 

To  cheer  the  dreary  realm  of  snow : 
Old  Winter’s  brow  would  not  be 
smoothed, 

Nor  the  young  Year’s  wailing 
soothed. 

How  sad  the  wretch  at  morn  or  eve 
Compelled  his  starving  home  to  leave, 
Who,  plunged  breast-deep  from  drift 
to  drift, 

Toils  slowly  on  from  rift  to  rift, 

Still  hearing  in  his  aching  ear 
The  cry  his  fancy  whispers  near, 

Of  little  ones  who  weep  for  bread 
Within  an  ill-provided  shed  ! 

But  wilder,  fiercer,  sadder  still, 

Freezing  the  tear  it  caused  to  start, 
Was  the  inevitable  chill 

Which  pierced  a  nation’s  agued 
heart, — 

A  nation  with  its  naked  breast 
Against  the  frozen  barriers  prest, 
Heaving  its  tedious  wav  and  slow 
Through  shifting  gulfs  and  drifts  of 
woe, 

Where  every  blast  that  whistled  by 
Was  bitter  with  its  children’s  cry. 


48 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Such  was  the  winter’s  awful  sight 
For  many  a  dreary  day  and  night, 
"What  time  our  country’s  hope  forlorn, 
Of  every  needed  comfort  shorn, 

Lay  housed  within  a  hurried  tent, 
Where  every  keen  blast  found  a  rent, 
And  oft  the  snow  was  seen  to  sift 
Along  the  floor  its  piling  drift, 

Or,  mocking  the  scant  blankets’  fold, 
Across  the  night-couch  frequent 
rolled  ; 

Where  every  path  by  a  soldier  beat, 
Or  every  track  where  a  sentinel 
stood, 

Still  held  the  print  of  naked  feet, 

And  oft  the  crimson  stains  of  blood ; 
Where  Famine  held  her  spectral 
court, 

And  joined  by  all  her  fierce  allies  : 
She  ever  loved  a  camp  or  fort 

Beleaguered  by  the  wintry  skies, — 
But  chiefly  when  Disease  is  by, 

To  sink  the  frame  and  dim  the  eye, 
Until,  with  seeking  forehead  bent, 

In  martial  garments  cold  and  damp, 
Pale  Death  patrols  from  tent  to  tent, 
To  count  the  charnels  of  the  camp. 

Such  was  the  winter  that  prevailed 
Within  the  crowded,  frozen  gorge  ; 
Such  were  the  horrors  that  assailed 
The  patriot  band  at  Valley  Forge. 

It  was  a  midnight  storm  of  woes 
To  clear  the  sky  for  Freedom’s 
morn  ; 

And  such  must  ever  be  the  throes 
The  hour  when  Liberty  is  born. 

The  chieftain,  by  his  evening  lamp, 
Whose  flame  scarce  cheered  the  hazy 
damp, 

Sat  toiling  o’er  some  giant  plan, 
With  maps  and  charts  before  him 
spread, 

Beholding  in  his  warrior-scan 

The  paths  which  through  the  future 
led. 

But  oft  his  eye  was  filmed  and  dim, 
And  oft  his  aching  bosom  yearned, 
As  through  the  camp  his  fancy 
turned 

And  saw  sad  eyes  which  bent  on  him 
The  look  which  they  in  pain  had 
learned. 


The  sunken  orbs  of  hunger  there, 
With  those  that  throbbed  in  fever- 
rage, 

As  he  their  suffering  might  assuage, 
Turned  on  him  their  imploring  stare. 
And  when  he  spoke  the  kindly  word 
Oft  from  his  lips  of  pity  heard, 

And  saw  those  eyes  grow  bright  the 
while 

They  caught  the  courage  of  his 
smile, 

His  sorrowing  heart  was  doubly 
stirred. 

And,  to  relieve  his  burdened  breast, 
His  face  into  his  hands  he  prest, 

And  poured  his  secret  soul  in  prayer, 
Where  hope  still  rose  above  despair. 

And  there  was  seated  by  his  side 
The  noblest  of  a  noble  line : 

Her  whole  soul  in  her  face  benign, 
Through  love  and  suffering  purified, 
Shone  worthy  such  a  chieftain’s  bride. 

And  not  alone  his  prayer  was  given, — 
She  joined  him  in  imploring  Heaven  : 
Those  prayers  fell  not  in  barren  sands 
Beside  Oblivion’s  fruitless  sea, 

But,  borne  aloft  by  angel  hands, 
They  bloomed  to  flowers  of  victory. 

The  eve  was  late  :  naught  met  the  ear, 
But  tramp  of  sentinel  marching  near, 
Or  soft  and  feathery  beat  of  snow 
Blown  light  against  the  window- 
pane, 

To  melt  thereon,  and  tearlike  flow, 
As  if  the  sympathetic  glow 

Within  had  turned  each  flake  to 
rain. 

At  times  there  came  the  slumbrous 
sound 

Of  waters  toiling  at  the  mill, 

Still  singing,  though  in  fetters  bound, 
The  song  learned  on  their  natal 
hill. 

Let  Winter,  with  oppressive  will, 
Bind  down  the  stream  with  chains 
of  ice, 

His  utmost  power  shall  not  suffice 
To  keep  that  heart  of  Freedom 
still : 

Though  prisoned  in  the  frozen  pond, 
It  only  reinforcement  waits 
To  burst  the  tyrant’s  heavy  gates 
And  leap  to  liberty  beyond. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


49 


Thus  with  the  tranquil  flood  of  power 
Within  that  camp  of  ice  and  snow : 
Though  all  was  silent  outward 
show, 

They  did  but  wait  the  opening  hour. 

The  night  was  late :  the  chieftain 
heard 

Approaching  footsteps  up  the  yard: 
A  knock  :  he  rose,  and  gave  the  word : 
The  door  swung  wide ;  the  snowy 
guard 

Announced,  with  some  unwonted  stir, 
An  unexpected  visitor, 

With  two  attendants  there  beside. 
It  was  a  maid  with  cloak  of  fur, 

And  hood,  so  closely  round  her  tied 
That  well  the  storm  had  been  defied. 
So  thick  the  snow  was  o’er  her  blown, 
So  flaxen  was  the  falling  braid 
Beside  the  rosy  cheek  displayed, 
She  looked  like  some  fair  Norland 
maid 

Wrapped  in  a  robe  of  eider-down. 

Beside  her  stood  a  youth  whose  mien 
Brought  to  the  chief’s  remember¬ 
ing  eye 

The  stripling  hero  he  had  seen 
Bearing  a  banner  proudly  high, 
Within  a  light-horse  flying  line, 

That  fearful  day  at  Brandywine. 

The  other  was  that  sturdy  dame 
The  housekeeper  :  you  saw  it  all 
In  one  glance  at  that  stately  frame, 
Queen  of  the  keys  of  Berkley  Hall. 

The  maid  a  moment  seemed  to  stand 
Abashed  before  that  presence  high  : 
He  read  it  in  her  timid  eye, 

And  took  in  his  her  trembling  hand. 
She  felt  her  young  blood  swifter  run  ; 
Her  heart  could  not  regain  its  calm ; 
Her  little  hand  lay  in  his  palm, — 
The  noble  palm  of  Washington  ! 

Then  rose  the  lady,  with  serene, 

Sweet  looks  o’er  all  her  stately  mien  ; 
And  she  too  took  her  hand,  and 
spoke 

In  winning  accents  low  and  mild  : — 

“  It  is  a  stormy  night,  my  child, 

For  one  so  young  to  be  abroad  ; — 

Or  have  you  wandered  from  your 
road  ? 

Pray,  loose  your  snowy  hood  and 
cloak, 

4 


And  warm  you  well  beside  the  fire, 
And  take  the  rest  which  you  require. 
Shrink  not  because  the  place  is  small : 
Our  hearts,  we  trust,  have  room  for 
all.” 

When  Esther  answered,  “Noble 
friends, 

We  have  not  wandered  from  our 
way, 

Nor  need  we  now  for  warmth 
delay ; 

Our  glowing  purpose  freely  sends 
Its  heat,  and  we  would  straigutway 
do 

The  duty  Heaven  directs  us  to. 

“  Much  have  we  heard  of  all  the  ills 
Suffered  along  these  winter  hills,— 

Of  famine  in  the  frozen  camp, 

Of  cheerless  couches,  cold  and  damp, 
Where  sickness  breathes  its  painful 
breath 

’Mid  bitter  wants  that  usher  Death. 

“  Hence  have  we  come,  with  courage 
armed, 

With  every  deep  compassion  warmed, 
To  do  the  little  in  our  power 
To  soothe  the  suffering  of  the  hour. 
Our  sleigh  is  standing  at  the  door, 
Laden  with  such  poor,  hasty  store 
As  one  home  from  its  winter  hoard 
Can  to  a  bleeding  cause  afford  : 

And  now  it  but  remains  to  ask 
Permission  to  assume  our  task.” 

She  ceased,  and  stood  with  glowing 
cheek, — 

So  beautiful,  so  young  and  meek, 

She  seemed  an  answer  to  their 
prayer, — 

A  very  pitying  angel  there. 

The  chieftain’s  eye  grew  dim  witn 
mist, 

His  heart  was  all  too  full  to  speak  ; 
The  lady’s  arm  the  maiden  prest, 

She  drew  her  to  her  matron  breast 

And  tenderly  her  forehead  kissed. 

The  chief  put  out  his  hands,  and 
smiled, — 

He  laid  them  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  said,  in  feeling  words  of 
prayer, 

“  God  bless  you,  noble  child  1” 


50 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


VII. 

THE  WINTEK  CAMP. 

’Twas  midnight  in  the  soldier’s  shed, 
Where  lay  upon  his  burning  bed 
The  sufferer,  to  whose  fever-glow 
Most  welcome  came  the  gusts  of 
snow, 

On  searching  night-winds,  icy  thin, 
Through  every  cranny  blowing  in, 
Filling  the  place  with  frequent  mist, 
That  round  the  one  poor  taper  hissed. 

Close  at  his  side  an  aged  man 
Sat,  like  a  good  Samaritan, 

Pouring  the  sacred  oil  and  halm, 

His  pains  and  spirit-wounds  to  calm. 
A  cloth  about  his  brow  was  bound, 
To  shield  a  deep  and  stubborn  wound  ; 
While  round  his  neck  the  intruding 
air 

Lifted  and  fanned  his  thin  gray  hair. 
Across  his  knees  his  warrior  sword 
Sustained  the  book  o’er  which  he 
pored ; 

The  leaves  were  yellow,  old,  and 
stained, 

And  oft  by  fluttering,  rude  winds 
stirred, 

But  still  his  aged  eyesight  strained 
To  read  the  sacred,  unstained  Word. 

But  who  was  she  who  knelt  beside, 
And  held  the  sick  man’s  hand  in 
hers, 

Feeling  such  pain  as  only  stirs 
The  breast  where  love  and  truth 
abide  ? 

It  needs  but  one  glance  to  suffice 
To  know  those  large  and  dewy  eyes  ; 
But  keener  sight  ’twould  take,  I 
ween, 

To  recognize  that  altered  mien 
Of  him  whose  features  scarcely  prove 
The  Edgar  of  her  hope  and  love. 

But  saddest  of  her  painful  lot 
To  look  into  those  eyes  which  burned, 
To  find  no  answering  look  returned, — 
Those  eyes  whose  gladness  ever  flew 
In  love  to  hers,  with  pleasure  new  : — 
Alas  !  alas  I  he  knew  her  not ! 

A  moment  thus  in  prayers  and  tears 
Her  bosom  poured  its  flood  of  fears ; 


But,  conscious  that,  though  blind 
with  pain, 

His  heart  was  hers,  and  hers  lone, 
She  summoned  strength,  and  stood 
again 

Strong  in  his  love  and  in  her  own. 
As  one  who  on  a  battle-plain, 

Feeling  his  life-blood  dew  the  ground, 
Seizes  the  scarf  which  love  had  bound 
With  trembling  hands  his  breast 
around, 

And  thrust  it  in  the  bleeding  wound 
To  stanch  the  crimson  tide  of  life, 
Then  springs  anew  to  join  the  strife, 
To  give,  perchance,  the  fatal  blow 
Which  lays  the  invading  foeman 
low, — 

So  rose  the  maid,  and  firmly  prest 
His  love  into  her  bleeding  breast, 
And  strove,  with  all  such  hands  can 
do, 

To  win  him  back  to  health  anew. 

It  was  a  charmed  sight  to  see 

How  lovingly  she  came  and  went, — 
How  like  a  sunbeam,  silently, 

She  cheered  and  warmed  that  winter 
tent. 

Her  cloak  of  fur  around  the  wall 
She  hung,  to  intercept  the  blast ; 
Across  the  door  was  spread  her  shawl, 
And  every  cranny  was  made  fast. 

Nor  here  alone  her  care  was  given : 

She  daily  passed  from  shed  to  shed  ; 
The  early  morn,  the  noon,  the  even, 
Still  found  her  near  some  sufferer’s 
bed. 

And  striving  oft,  as  she  had  striven, 
There  praying  ’mid  the  sick  and 
dead, 

She  saw  the  chieftain’s  bowing 
head, 

And  heard  his  word  of  courage 
said : 

Where’er  they  smiled  there  seemed 
to  spread 

The  soft  and  healing  breath  of  Heaven. 

Not  fruitless  was  her  constant  care, 
And  not  unheard  her  daily  prayer : 
The  blackest  cloud  of  all  was  past ; 
New  sunshine  filled  the  winter 
skies ; 

Hope  came  to  Edgar’s  couch  at  last : 
No  more  her  face  his  glance  denies  ; 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


51 


His  soul  responded  through  his 
eyes 

With  all  the  warmth  which  love 
supplies. 

And  with  the  first  returning  breath — 
A  breath  as  sweet  as  that  which 
stirs 

Through  April  houghs,  when  all 
the  woods 

Feel  the  first  thrill  of  promised 
buds — 

•  He  owned  his  soul  was  doubly  hers, 
Since  she  had  called  it  back  from 
death. 

One  day,  as  by  the  scanty  fire 
She  strove  to  make  it  sparkle  higher, 
The  while  her  patient’s  slender 
form 

Was  propt  beside,  and  mantled 
warm, 

The  old  man,  Edgar’s  patriot  sire, 
Entered  with  overshadowed  brow, 
And  said,  “  Sweet  daughter,  come 
with  me : 

I  fear  another  couch  may  now 
Lay  claim  to  your  fidelity. 

The  strange  wild  woman  you  so  oft 
Encountered  in  your  winter  round, 
And  who  so  frequently  you  found 
Soothing  the  sick  with  accents  soft, — 
Accents  which  suited  not  the  dress, 

So  fitted  for  the  wilderness, — 

How  lies  a  victim  to  the  spell 
Which  she  in  others  strove  to  quell, 
With  fever  sorely  racked  and  thrilled, 
’Mid  kindly  hands,  but  all  unskilled. 

“  I  have  not  yet  forgot  the  day 
When  on  the  battle-field  I  lay 
Almost  in  death,  she  was  the  first 
To  slake  my  fever-flame  of  thirst, 

Or  how  within  the  secret  cave 
She  tended  me  so  well  and  long, 
Cheering  me  oft  with  some  wild 
stave 

Of  ballad  or  of  mountain-song, 

And  oft,  as  though  I  were  a  child 
(There’s  something  in  her  brain 
amiss), 

Telling  some  legend  strange  and  wild. 

For  this -  But  nay, — it  needs 

not  this 

To  wake  compassion  in  your  eyes : — 
A  human  creature  suffering  lies.” 


Then  Esther  rose,  and  joined  her 
guide, 

And  reached  the  shed  where  Nora 
lay; 

But,  when  she  stood  by  Nora’s  side, 

Her  heart  of  courage  sank  away. 
For,  oh,  it  was  a  piteous  sight 
To  see  those  eyes  so  strangely  bright, 
And  all  that  flood  of  scattered  hair 
As  blown  by  winds  of  wild  despair, 
And  all  the  trappings  of  her  dress 
Flung  wide  by  hands  of  hot  distress ! 

There  Ugo  by  the  wagoner  stood, 
And  both  in  anxious,  gloomy  mood ; 
She  stared  upon  the  wondering  child, 

Then  wept  as  o’er  some  burning 
thought, 

Then  gazed  at  Ringbolt  strangely 
wild, 

And  laughed,  as  though  her  pain 
were  naught. 

The  saddest  of  all  sounds  that  flow 
Is  laughter  forced  from  deeps  of  woe. 

A  moment  on  the  maid  she  glanced, 
As  if  her  spirit  hung  entranced, 

And  now,  with  curious,  searching 
scan, 

Surveyed  the  pitying,  gray-haired 
man, 

And  spoke  with  low,  mysterious 
air : — 

“Thou  poor  young  bride,  beware  1 
beware ! 

Oh,  wed  not  with  that  cold  white 
hair  1 

That  summer  smile  is  but  device : — 
His  breast  is  snow,  his  heart  is  ice. 

Oh,  cold  was  the  bridegroom, 

All  frozen  with  pride  ! — 

He  first  slew  her  lover, 

Then  made  her  his  bride. 
Ringbolt,  how  goes  the  battle  ?  Ho ! 
Fly,  Ugo  ! — fly  ! — the  foe  ! — the  foe  ! 
A  stealthy  trick ! — but  they  shall 
know 

The  stricken  can  return  the  blow  ! 

The  tyrant  and  his  host  shall  flee, — 
When  patriots  strike,  they  shall  be 
free ! 

“  Our  flag  like  a  meteor 

Sweeps  down  through  the  fight : 

It  brightens  the  valley 
And  burns  on  the  height. 


52 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


“  Oh,  did  you  not  see 

How  it  sprung  like  a  flame 
"When  the  voice  of  the  nation 
Called  Freedom  by  name  ? 

“  On  the  soul  of  the  tyrant 
That  mighty  name  fell, 

As  in  Gessler’s  heart  quivered 
The  arrow  of  Tell !  ’ 7 

Thus  sang  she,  and  fell  hack  with 
breath 

Drawn  faint  as  through  the  lips  of 
death ; 

The  life  within  the  frame  consumed 
Seemed  scarce  again  to  he  illumed. 
Then  Eingbolt  gazed  on  her  with 
eye 

Of  pain, — almost  of  agony, — 

And  said,  with  heavy,  solemn  tongue, 
“  ’Tis  hard  for  one  so  good  and  young 
To  suffer  thus !  The  poor  white 
dove 

"Was  murdered  by  a  falcon’s  love  !” 

Then  Esther  said,  “  Indeed,  my 
friends, 

It  is  a  sight  which  sadly  sends 
The  blood  back  on  the  heart,  to  see 
Such  depths  of  human  misery. 

Oh,  surely  this  wild,  dismal  camp 
Is  all  too  rough  and  cold  and  damp : 
’Twere  better  if  she  were  conveyed 
And  in  some  quiet  chamber  laid, 
’Mid  hands  that  know  to  tend  and 
spread 

The  comforts  of  a  sufferer’s  bed, 
Where  pity  only  holds  control, 

With  not  a  sound  to  vex  the  soul. 
And  such  a  room  my  heart  allows, 
Within  a  well-provided  house, 

And  well  I  know  her  couch  will 
find 

The  hands  attendant,  gentle,  kind  ; 
For  Hulda,  ever  good  and  mild, 

Will  guard  her  as  she  were  her  child. 
Haste,  Ugo,  haste,  and  bring  the 
sleigh, 

And  let  her  he  enwrapt  straight¬ 
way  : 

’Tis  hut  a  short  two  hours’  ride  ; 

So  easily  her  course  shall  glide, 

So  deep  shall  he  her  bed  of  fur, 

So  soft  and  noiseless  be  the  stir, 

That  she  may  sleep  and  never  know 
How  swiftly  fly  the  miles  below.” 


A  moment  there  was  seen  to  go 

O’er  Kingbolt’s  face  a  blackening 
cloud  : 

At  length  his  nodding  forehead 
bowed : 

u  Perchance,”  he  said,  “  ’twere  better 
so.” 

The  sleigh  was  brought,  and  many 
a  fold 

Of  fur  and  blanket  wrapt  her  form  : 

And  now  within  the  wagoner’s  hold, 

Like  a  light  infant,  close  and  warm, 

She  lay, — and  thus,  beside  the  maid, 

To  Berkley  Mansion  was  conveyed. 

He  bore  her  up  the  shadowy  stair, 

The  ’  wildered  sufferer  knew  not  where, 

And  in  a  chamber  warm  and  large 

He  left  her  in  kind  Hulda’s  charge. 

A  cup  of  wine, — bluff  words  of 
thanks, — 

If  Esther  would  regain  the  camp, 
Ugo  must  be  her  guard  and 
guide, — 

The  great  hall  heard  his  heavy 
tramp, 

The  deep  snow  marked  his  giant 
stride 

Which  led  him  up  the  Schuylkill 
banks 

To  join  again  his  waiting  ranks. 


VIII. 

THE  HEKALDS. 

Days  came  and  went  round  Nora’s 
couch  : 

If  there  was  need  of  aught  to  tell 
That  gentle  hands  attended  well, 

Her  mild  and  altered  mien  could 
vouch. 

Weeks  came  and  went,  and  every  day 
Brought  better  news  from  out  the 
valley : 

Each  tiding-tongue  was  glad  to  say 
The  troops,  the  cause,  all  seemed  to 
rally. 

And  Esther’s  heart,  though  still  her 
sire 

Was  captive  in  the  royal  camp, 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALEEGHANIES. 


53 


Saw  Hope  re-fan  her  smouldering  fire 
Within  the  cloud’s  desponding 
damp. 

’Twas  evening,  and  she  watched  the 
gleam 

Of  moonlight  over  hill  and  stream  ; 
Though  winter  now  was  wellnigh 
through, 

And  spring-time  promised  soon  to 
blow, 

Still,  all  the  scene  which  met  her 
view 

Lay  in  a  gleaming  robe  of  snow. 
She  sat  and  gazed  upon  the  stars, 

As  on  a  banner  there  unfurled, 
And  wondered  if  each  sparkling 
world 

Was  shocked  like  this  with  martial 
jars,— 

If  through  those  tranquil,  silver 
skies 

Stern  warriors  bent  devoted  eyes 
In  worship  on  the  planet  Mars. 

She  mused, — when  Hulda’s  waking 
hand 

Was  laid  upon  her  resting  arm, 
And,  looking  up  with  mild  alarm, 
She  saw  within  the  moonlight  stand 
Another,  whose  brave  feet  had  paced 
Through  paths  of  snow  in  breathless 
haste. 

“  I  come” — this  was  her  hurried  word, 
She  scarcely  seemed  for  breath  to 
pause — 

“  To  you,  for  I  have  often  heard 
Your  heart  is  with  our  patriot 
cause : 

You  have  swift  horses  at  command, 
And  have,  perchance,  some  trusty 
hand 

By  whom  a  message  may  be  borne  : 
The  word  I  bear  must  reach  our  band 
Before  to-morrow  morn.” 

“Speak  on!”  the  startled  hearer 
cried  : 

“  It  shall,  no  matter  what  betide  !” 

“  Our  enemy  a  plan  has  laid — 

I  got  the  news,  it  boots  not  how — 
By  which  our  camp  shall  be  betrayed, 
And  all  our  noble  army  made 
To  bite  the  dust,  or  basely  bow. 


This  was  their  threat ;  and  even  now 
Their  rapid  horsemen  form  in  line, 
And  ere  the  dawn  ’tis  their  design 
To  strike  the  fatal  blow. 

“  This  is  the  news  :  I  pray  you  speed  ; 
The  hour  is  short,  and  dire  the 
need : 

I  have  no  time  to  answer  more  ; 
But  if  our  noble  chief  would  know 
The  source  from  which  these  tidings 
flow, 

Then  tell  him  boldly,  undeterred, 

’Tis  Lydia  Darrach’s  faithful  word,18 
Which  served  him  once  before.” 

“Thanks,  noble  heart!”  young  Es¬ 
ther  cried, 

And  flung  her  daring  tresses  wide : 

“  Spite  every  danger  or  mishap, 
Ere  yon  low  moon  shall  disappear, 
The  news  shall  reach  our  General’s 
ear 

Though  Death  stood  in  the  gap!” 

Waiting  no  more  to  hear  or  say, 

The  herald  took  her  homeward  way. 

“How,  Ugo!” — this  was  Esther’s 
call, — 

“  Bridle  the  swiftest  steed  in  stall, 
Fly  with  the  news  you  just  have 
heard, 

And  let  our  chieftain  know  the  word.  ” 

“A  steed!”  he  answered  ;  “  but  sup¬ 
pose 

The  road  should  be  beset  with  foes, 
The  boldest  rider  scarce  would  do 
To  bear  such  needful  tidings  through. 
Ho,  no  :  I  have  a  better  way, — 

One  quite  as  swift,  and  far  more 
sure ; 

Hor  horse  nor  man  my  course  shall 
stay, 

I  shall  be  mounted  so  secure.” 

She  stared  at  him  with  puzzled 
brow, 

But  he  nor  look  nor  answer  stayed  ; 
She  heard  the  rattling  which  he 
made 

Within  the  dusky  hall  below  ; 

She  saw  him  dash  across  the  snow, 
Until  he  gained  the  frozen  river, 


54 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Watched  him  a  moment  bending  low, 
Then,  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 
Beheld  his  flying  figure  go 

On  skates,  with  many  a  flash  and 
quiver, 

As  if  the  glistening  ice  and  steel, 

In  lightning,  would  his  speed  reveal. 

The  smile  applauded  the  device: 

She  watched  him,  with  a  glad  sur¬ 
prise, 

Until  he  vanished  from  her  eyes. 
But  suddenly,  with  fear  renewed, 
She  stood  in  anxious  attitude  : — 
That  messenger  upon  the  ice, 

It  might,  and  yet  might  not,  suffice. 
If  highways  held  the  foeman  wolf, 
The  river  also  had  its  gulf, 

And  ’twas  the  season  when  the  sun 
Old  Winter’s  work  had  half  undone  ; 
The  snowy  eaves  were  thawed  at 
noon, 

The  thinning  ice  must  vanish  soon  ; 
The  moon,  too,  hung  with  sinking 
disk  ; 

Her  light  would  shortly  be  at  end. 
No,  no  :  it  would  not  do  to  send 
One  messenger  on  such  a  risk : 

All  must  be  staked  to  win  or  lose ; 

In  such  a  cause,  who  stayed  to  choose  ? 

In  haste  she  ordered  out  the  sleigh  : 
None  heard  the  maid  her  purpose  say ; 
’Twas  not  for  others’  ears  discussed, 
For  there  was  none  whom  she  would 
trust, 

Save  Hulda,  and  her  duty  lay 
Bound  suffering  Nora  night  and 
day. 

Alone  she  mounted,  without  pause, 

To  save,  perchance,  her  country’s 
cause : 

Away,  away,  the  light  car  flew  ; 

The  hoofs  flung  up  the  powdery 
snow ; 

Swift  as  a  river  seemed  to  flow 
The  road  beneath,  where,  slipping 
through 

The  crispy  foam  with  whistling 
shrieks, 

The  runners  left  their  glistening 
streaks. 

Oh,  enviable  star  in  heaven 
That  looked  through  that  still  crystal 
even, 


And  saw  how  those  two  heralds  went, 
Each  on  the  same  high  mission  bent, — 
One  on  a  road  of  ice  below, 

One  on  a  stream-like  road  of  snow, 
The  locks  of  each  flung  backward  far, 
And  trailing  like  a  meteor  star: 

Oh,  ne’er  before  sped  soul  with  soul 
In  holier  race  for  earthly  goal ! 

Just  as  the  last  hill-top  was  neared, 
And  the  swift  horses  slackened  pace, 
A  voice,  as  if  it  broke  through  space, 
Pealed  to  the  welkin  as  it  cheered, 
Announcing  the  last  danger  cleared : — 
’Twas  Ugo’s  wild,  triumphant  mirth, 
Binging  as  it  would  circle  earth. 

And  thus  the  two  young  heralds  met, 
In  spite  of  foes  about  them  set, 

In  spite  of  dark  and  wintry 
weather, 

And  to  the  grateful  patriot  chief, 

In  burning  language  plain  and  brief, 
Delivered  theirgreat  news  together ; 
And  soon  the  horses,  flecked  with 
foam, 

Well  pleased,  were  turned  again  for 
home. 

While  IT go  took  the  guiding  rein, 
Thus  held  the  maid  her  musing 
vein : — 

“  Now  the  moon  has  left  her  track, 
Dropt  behind  the  mountain-bars  ; 
Paly  shine  the  cold  white  stars, 
And  the  pale  earth  answers  hack  ; 

All  the  world  a  shadow  lies, 

Darkly,  breathless,  deathly  still, 
While  above  us  hang  the  skies, 
Throbbing  to  our  throbbing  eyes, 

Till  the  fancy  almost  hears 

Something  of  the  strains  that  thrill, 
Passing  through  the  happy  spheres. 

u  Yonder  the  great  Northern  Wain 
Bings  across  the  azure  plain, 

Nightly  rolling  toward  the  goal 
Of  the  ever-steadfast  Pole : 

Every  steed  in  that  great  car 
On  his  forehead  wears  a  star, 

Proud  with  bells  upon  his  mane. 

u  Sweetest  of  the  chimes  of  heaven, 
Is  yon  clustered  sister-seven, 

In  their  turret’s  misty  height, 

Like  a  stem  of  lilies  white, — 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


55 


Our  sweet  valley  Pleiades, 

Kinging  perfume  on  the  breeze. 

Ring,  sweet  sisters,  clearer  still : 

My  heart  listens  for  the  thrill 
From  your  sacred  belfry-cell : 

Pour  your  chime  ;  but,  ah,  the  knell 
Floats  from  off  your  silver  lips 
For  that  lost  one  in  eclipse  ! 

“  Lost ! — ah,  no  :  she  is  nc  t  lost ; 

Her  song  was  too  fine  and  sweet 
"With  your  singing  to  compete  ; 

On  some  more  celestial  coast 
She  is  now  the  angels’  boast, 

With  her  joy  forever  told, 

In  a  tower  of  shining  gold. 

“  Ring,  sweet  stars  of  heaven,  anew, 
And  my  heart  will  sing  with  you ; 
Ring  ! — oh,  ring  ! — that  I  may  hear 
And  feel  that  heaven  is  sometimes 
near.” 

Thus  Esther  in  her  happy  breast 
The  pleasure  of  her  soul  contest; 

For  she  was  glowing  with  a  sense 
(Although  the  thought  had  scarcely 
heed) 

That  she  had  done  a  sacred  deed 
Which  was  its  own  sweet  recompense. 
The  singing  sleigh,  the  horses’  tread, 
Slow  pacing  homeward  at  their  will, 
The  flowing  road  that  backward  sped, 
The  stars  that  chased  her  overhead, 
Like  heavenly  guardians  with  her 
still, 

The  crystal  air,  hut  not  too  chill, 
All  soothed  her  with  a  gentle  calm, 
As  if  a  cool  and  tender  palm 
Were  on  her  tranquil  forehead  prest 
To  woo  her  into  peaceful  rest. 

And  Ugo  held  in  dreamy  spell 

The  reins  which  seemed  about  to 
fall ; 

But  homeward  steeds  remember  well 
The  road  which  leads  them  t o  their 
stall. 

All  nature  seemed  as  it  were  fanned 
With  Slumber’s  cool  and  downy 
pinions ; 

But,  hold  ! — the  steeds  are  at  full 
stand  ! 

Around  them  close  the  foeman’s 
minions  ! 


Is  she  awake,  or  does  she  dream  ? 

The  sword-flash  that  before  her  stirs, 
The  scarlet  coat,  the  helmet’s  gleam, 
The  bursting  laugh  of  rude  de¬ 
rision, 

A  rough  voice  shouting,  “  Pris¬ 
oners  !” 

A  soldier  at  each  horse’s  rein, 

And  Ugo  dragged  among  the  train, — 
All  this  proclaims  it  is  no  vision. 
The  boy  is  loud, — he  will  not  stay  : 

A  boy  is  he,  armed  soldiers  they. 
“What  men  are  ye,”  she  strove  to 
say, 

“  Who  dare  to  stop  a  lady’s  way  ? 

I  charge  ye,  off !  Unbind  the  hoy !” 
Whereat  the  captain’s  voice  replied, 
Close  at  the  startled  maiden’s  side, 

“  Lady,  we  wish  not  to  annoy 
Further  than  strictest  duty  calls : 

Be  not  alarmed  :  if  aught  befalls 
Amiss,  the  fault  shall  not  be  ours, — 
We  serve  the  cause  of  higher  powers: 
Though  it  seem  hard,  and  you  con¬ 
demn, 

Our  prisoner,  you  must  go  to  them.” 

He  took  the  reins,  and  said  no  more : 
With  mounted  men  to  guard  them 
down, 

Even  past  her  own  unhappy  door 
She  went  a  captive  to  the  town. 


PART  III. 

i. 

THE  TANKARD  OF  WINE. 

/ 

Oh,  what  delight  is  in  the  air 
What  time  the  new-born  spring  is 
there ! 

How  sweet  it  is  on  the  breezy  slope, 
’Mid  flowers  in  bloom  or  about  to  ope, 
When  the  dog-wood,  like  a  maiden 
dight 

In  bridal  robes  of  snowy  white, 
Beside  the  flaming  maple  stands, 
While  the  oak,  with  priestly  hands 
Spread  above  their  bowing  heads, 

His  whispering  benediction  sheds  ; 
Where  never  a  careless  wind  forgets 
To  tell  of  the  woodland  violets, 


56 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Or  how  it  half  forgot  to  pass 
From  spice-wood  boughs  and  sassa¬ 
fras  ; 

And,  like  the  soul  of  a  mocking¬ 
bird, 

Repeating  every  song  it  heard, 

Each  sweeter  for  being  brought  afar, 
As  all  the  joys  of  memory  are. 

Such  Esther  knew  were  the  delights 
Clothing  the  valley  and  the  heights  ; 
And  every  perfumed  air  she  met, 
Fresh  breathing  of  the  wood  and 
field, 

Filled  her  with  longings  and  regret 
For  joys  the  city  could  not  yield. 

Had  she  a  pleasure  in  her  breast, 

In  secret  it  was  all  suppressed  ; 

For  every  look  and  every  tone 
Proclaimed  her  Melancholy’s  own. 

’Twas  true,  her  captive  chains  were 
light, — 

Another  might  have  deemed  them 
bright ; 

But,  light  or  bright,  she  felt  the 
pain 

Of  knowing  that  there  was  a  chain 
Which  flowers,  though  twined  with 
subtlest  art, 

Could  not  make  welcome  to  her  heart : 
They  could  but  hide  from  others’ 
stare 

The  galling  weight  she  knew  was 
there. 

The  city  and  its  farthest  street 
Were  free  to  her  unfettered  feet ; 

But  there  was  still  that  line  beyond, 
O’er  which  her  feelings,  wildly  fond, 
Took  yearning  wing,  and  well  she 
knew 

She  could  not  follow  where  they  flew. 

Sir  Hugh  grew  daily  more  appeased  : 
He  mingled  with  the  martial  court, 
His  fetters  seemed  but  things  of 
sport, 

And  even  now  might  be  released 
If  he  in  any  slight  degree 
Would  bow  and  sue  for  liberty. 

But  no  !  they  had  assailed  his  pride  : 
His  loyalty  had  been  denied : 

He  would  not  bow  the  suppliant 
limb, — 

Hay,  rather  they  must  bow  to  him. 


And  now,  too,  all  he  held  most  dear 
Hext  to  his  pride,  his  child,  was  here, 
And  many  a  noble  officer 
Bowed  supplely  low  to  him  and  her ; 
And  even  those  with  hearts  allied 
In  secret  to  the  patriot  side 
Made  him  obeisance  ;  for  they  deemed 
He  might  be  other  than  he  seemed. 
These  flattering  tributes  to  him  paid 
Gave  sweet  contentment,  and  he 
stayed. 


’Twas  twilight,  and  the  evening  air 
Came  dancing  over  Delaware, 
Fanning  the  easy  sailor’s  hair, 

Who  laughed  and  quaffed  away  his 
care, 

With  merry  song  and  gusty  din, 
Under  the  stoop  before  the  inn, 
Where  soon,  arrayed  in  colors  fine, 
Two  officers  of  the  royal  line 
Reeled  singing  in  at  the  open  door, 

A  flush  with  pleasure  and  with  wine: 
’Twas  noble,  they  said, — or  rather 
swore, — 

With  such  a  general  to  dine. 

Each  face  was  scarlet  as  their  dress  : 
The  whole  man  seemed  to  loom  and 
shine, 

As  if  the  red  blood  of  the  vine 
Its  glowing  presence  would  express 
By  every  visible  outward  sign. 

“  Ho,  landlord  of  the  ‘  Ship  and  Sheaf,’ 
Bring  us  a  flagon,  and  be  brief! 

We  must  not  let  the  tide  go  by, 

To  leave  us  stranded  high  and  dry, 

Or  wait  to-morrow’s  evening  flood 
To  lift  us  o’er  the  sand  and  mud  ; 
’Twill  never  do  to  stick  aground 
While  other  barques  are  sailing 
round  : 

Let  loose  the  wine,  and,  should  that 
fail, 

Then  swim  us  off  with  good  brown 
ale !” 

Thus  shouted  they,  then  searched  the 
gloom, 

To  note  what  guests  were  in  the  room  : 
Their  glance  found  only  two  beside. 

“  Two  fellows  there  I  think  I  spied,” 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


57 


Thus  whispered  one.  “Nay,  there 
are  more,” 

The  other  answered, — “  surely  four  : 
But  two,  perchance,  are  made  of 
wine  !” 

Whereat  they  laughed  ;  and  still  they 
swore 

’Twas  noble,  glorious,  and  divine 
With  such  a  general  to  dine. 

“  Ho,  landlord,  bring  another  flask, 
To  nerve  us  for  to-morrow’s  task ! 
To-morrow’s  task  !  Ah,  that  will  be 
A  scene  of  such  rare  chivalry 
That  all  shall  go  joy-mad  to  see  ! 

A  thousand  times  more  bright  and 
fine 

Than  Germantown  or  Brandywine  ! 
How  those  poor  devils  in  the  gorge, 
Hidden  away  at  Yalley  Forge, 

In  their  tatterdemalion  rags, 

Making  their  empty  rebel  brags, 
Would  ope  their  boorish  eyes  to  gaze 
Upon  the  splendors  which  shall  blaze 
And  burn,  until  the  night  is  spent, 
Around  our  glorious  tournament ! 
Come,  landlord,  drink,  before  we  go, 
A  bumper  to  the  royal  show  ! 

“  That  fellow  there,  who  seems  to  sulk 
And  in  the  shadowy  corner  skulk, 

Go  bring  him  out,  and  let  him  clear 
His  throat,  that  he  may  loudly  cheer 
The  golden  glories  he  shall  see 
Around  to-morrow’s  pageantry  ! 
Come,  sirrah,  when  a  colonel  bids, 
Nor  sit  with  scowl  like  pirate  Kidd’s  : 
This  smile  will  smooth  your  hostler 
frown 

When  it  washes  the  hay-dust  down  1” 

The  stranger  rose  :  through  a  side  way 
door 

He  pushed  a  young  companion  out, 
Then  stood  a  moment  as  in  doubt, 
The  while  he  scanned  the  revellers 
o’er, 

Then  strode  to  the  table  with  visage 
grim, 

Demanding  what  they  would  with 
him. 

“  To  drink  our  general’s  health  !”  they 
cried. 

“  Our  general !”  boldly  he  replied, 
And  drained  the  goblet  willingly. 


“  And  to  our  tournament  beside  1” 
“And  to  the  tournament!”  echoed 
he ; 

“  And  may  I  be  on  hand  to  see  !” 

“  Again  !”  the  other  cried,  with  zest ; 
“  Fill  high  ! — methinks  that  were  a 
breast 

To  hold  a  gallon  in  its  chest, — 

And  let  the  toast  be  to  the  fair, — 

To  her  whose  colors  I  shall  wear, — 
The  badge  of  the  ‘  Burning  Mountain’ 
mine, 

‘  The  maid  I  love’  my  motto  sign. 
Then  pledge  for  whom  I  set  the  lance, 
With  whom  in  banquet  I  shall 
dance, — 

Perchance” — he  hiccoughed,  and 
waved  his  wine — 

“  To  her  who  may  be  bride  of  mine, — 
I  have  the  father’s  word  for  all : 

Or,  if  not  that” — with  drunken  leer 
He  whispered  in  his  comrade’s  ear, 
Then  laughed  till  the  cup  was  nigh 
to  fall, 

And  shouted,  “  The  heiress  of  Berkley 
Hall!” 

The  stranger’s  tankard  was  ready  up  ; 
Each  his  lip  was  about  to  dash, 
When,  with  an  oath  like  a  thunder- 
-crash, 

He  flashed  the  wine  in  the  speaker’s 
face 

And  into  the  other’s  the  empty  cup, 
And  then,  with  heavy,  giant  pace, 
Strode  leisurely  beyond  the  place  ; 
And,  ere  they  woke  from  their  dis¬ 
grace, 

A  light  boat  and  a  springing  oar 
Had  borne  the  wagoner  far  from  shore- 


ii. 

THE  MESCHIANZA.19 

0  city  the  beloved  of  Penn, 

How  was  your  quiet  startled  when 
Bed  Mars  made  your  calm  harbor 
glow 

With  all  the  splendors  he  can  show ! 

How  looked  your  tranquil  founder 
down 

That  day  upon  his  cherished  town, — 


58 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


That  town  which  in  the  sylvan  wild 
He  reared  and  tended  like  a  child  ? 

Methinks  that  patriarch  and  his  peers, 
Who  fashioned  all  your  staid  re¬ 
treats, 

Groaned  then  in  their  celestial  seats 
With  sad  offended  eyes  and  ears  ; 
And,  had  their  loving  faith  allowed, 
That  day,  in  mournful  spirit  bowed, 
Each  had  turned  his  olive-wand 
Into  a  rod  of  reprimand. 

The  May  was  there, — the  blue-eyed 
May; 

The  sweet  south  breeze  came  up  the 
bay, 

Fanning  the  river  where  it  lay 
Voiceless,  with  astonished  stare, — 
The  great  sea-drinking  Delaware. 

There,  in  the  broad,  clear  afternoon, 
With  myriad  oars,  and  all  in  tune, 

A  swarm  of  barges  moved  away, 
In  all  their  grand  regatta  pride, 

As  bright  as  in  a  blue  lagoon, 

When  gondolas  from  shore  to  shore 
Swam  round  the  golden  Bucentaur 
On  a  Venetian  holiday, 

What  time  the  Doge  threw  in  the 
tide 

The  ring  which  made  the  sea  his 
bride. 

’Mid  these  were  mighty  platforms 
drawn, 

Each  crowded  like  a  festal  lawn,— 
Great  swimming  floors,  o’er  which 
were  rolled 

Cloth  of  scarlet,  green,  and  gold, 
Like  tropic  isles  of  flowery  light 
Unmoored  by  some  enchanter’s  might, 
O’erflowed  with  music,  floated  down 
Before  the  wharf-assembled  town. 

A  thousand  rowers  rocked  and  sung, 
A  thousand  light  oars  flashed  and 
flung 

A  fairy  rainbow  where  they  sprung. 
Conjoining  with  the  singers’  voice, 

In  ecstatic  rival  trial, 

Every  instrument  of  choice, 

Mellow  flute  and  silver  viol, 

Wooed  the  soft  air  to  rejoice  ; 

Till  on  wings  of  splendor  met, 


Clearer,  louder,  wilder  yet, 

Clarion  and  clarionet, 

And  the  bugle’s  sailing  tone, 

As  from  lips  of  tempests  blown, 

Made  the  whole  wide  sky  its  own, 
Shivering  with  its  festal  jar 
The  aerial  dome  afar. 

Thus  the  music  past  the  town 
Winged  the  swimming  pageant  down, 
Till  with  one  loud  crash  it  dropt, 

And  the  bright  flotilla  stopt, 

Mooring  in  the  bannered  port 
At  the  flowery  wharves  of  Sport. 

There  wide  triumphal  arches  flamed 
With  painted  trophies,  which  pro¬ 
claimed, 

With  mottoes  wrought  in  many  a 
line 

Around  some  brave  heraldic  sign, 
That  all  the  splendors  here  displayed 
Were  honors  to  great  chieftains  paid. 

Pavilions  round  the  field  were  spread, 
With  flying  banners  overhead, 
Where,  on  a  high  and  central  throne, 
The  two  commanders  reigned  alone  : 
The  admiral,  whose  powdered  hair 
Had  oft  been  fanned  by  ocean  air ; 
The  general,  whose  eye  oft  sped 
O’er  fields  transfused  from  green  to 
red, 

As  if  the  very  plain  should  wear 
The  hue  his  army  held  so  dear, — 
Both  deeming  that  the  world  must 
bow 

Before  the  awful  name  of  Howe. 

And  there, — oh,  feast  for  painter’s 
heart, 

And  yet  a  light  to  mock  his  art, 

To  kindle  all  a  poet’s  fire, 

To  waken,  madden,  and  inspire, 

Yet  leave  him  mastered  and  undone, 
As  faints  a  taper  in  the  sun, — 

Yes,  there,  in  many  a  beaming  row, 
Was  lit  such  beauty  as  might  glow 
Alone  in  fabled  tourney-rings  ; 

Held  in  those  far  enchanted  scenes 
Where  all  are  princesses  and  queens 
And  all  the  jousting  knights  are 
kings. 

Such  light  was  then  our  city’s  boast; 
And  such,  methinks,  it  has  not  lost: 


I 


THE  WAGONER  OF 

The  features  Stuart  loved  to  trace 
And  clothe  in  his  immortal  glow 
Are  met  by  many  a  soul-lit  face, 
Secured  by  Sully ’s  touch  of  grace, 

As  bright  as  theirs  of  long  ago. 

O  noble  masters,  might  I  here 

Seize  the  light  pencil  from  your 
grasp, 

Then  should  the  picture  reappear 
Which  vainly  I  attempt  to  clasp. 
What  though  the  vision  with  me 
stays, 

The  awkward  pencil  tamely  strays, 
And  leaves  me,  after  all  my  cost, 

To  sigh  above  my  labor  lost. 

But  ye  who  have  the  conjuring  will, 
The  painter’s  gift,  the  poet’s  heart, 
Take  the  rough  lines  I  cannot  fill, 
And  touch  them  with  your  clearer 
art. 

In  middle  of  the  central  group — 

The  fairest  maidens  of  the  troop, 

Each  in  her  flowing  Turkish  dress — 
Sat  Esther,  in  her  loveliness. 

A  graceful  turban  bound  her  brow, 
Its  end  flung  back  in  gauzy  flow, 

And  from  its  sides  hung  loops  of 
pearls, 

Dripping  among  the  golden  curls, 
While  on  its  snowy  front  was  set 
A  diamond  stellar  coronet, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  stars 
A  red  rose  shone,  like  burning  Mars  ; 
The  silken  robe,  of  ample  fold, 

Was  white,  and  bound  with  belt  of 
gold, 

O’er  which  a  scarf  of  wondrous  lace 
Added  its  wealth  of  flowing  grace. 

Her  beauty  thrilled  the  gazing  crowd, 
And  made  the  heart  of  Berkley 
glad; 

But  if  Sir  Hugh  that  hour  was 
proud, 

Still  prouder  was  the  stripling  lad, 
Brave  Ugo,  who  beside  her  chair, 
With  height  and  form  beyond  his 
age, 

Stood  near,  her  guardian  and  her 
page  ; 

His  large  dark  eyes  and  raven  hair 
To  hers  made  contrast  rich  and  rare  ; 
And,  decked  in  Oriental  suit, 

He  looked  a  Turk  from  head  to  foot, 


THE  ALLEGHANIES.  59 

Holding  superb  and  tranquil  mien, 

As  by  the  throne  of  a  sceptred  queen. 

Now  rang  the  bugle  to  the  cloud ; 

And  now  seven  knights,  in  brave 
attire 

Of  white  and  scarlet  gayly 
donned, 

On  chargers  well  caparisoned, 

And  each  attended  by  his  squire, 
Rode  in  before  the  admiring  crowd  ; 

And  soft  eyes  sparkled  brightly 
fond, 

As  each  before  his  lady  bowed. 

Then  rang  the  herald’s  trumpet 
higher, 

And  swelled  the  challenge  fiercely 
loud  : — 

t£  The  brave  knights  of  ‘  The 
Blended  Rose’ 

Proclaim  the  fair  whom  they  de¬ 
fend 

Are  lovelier,  nobler  in  their  pride, 
Than  all  the  world  can  show  beside ; 

And  he  who  dares  this  vaunt  oppose 

We  challenge  to  the  direful 
end!” 

Three  times  abroad  the  vaunt  was 
thrown  ; 

And  now  another  bugle  blown, 
Flinging  its  scorn  around  the  heaven, 

Ushered  in  the  answering  troop, — 
The  gallant  and  defying  seven, 

In  suits  of  orange  and  of  black, 

With  harnessed  steeds  and  squires  to 
back  ; 

And  these  with  proud  and  knightly 
stoop 

Made  their  obeisance  to  the  fair 
Whose  beauty  they  defended  there. 

Then  swelled  the  other  herald’s 
cry 

“ 1  The  Knights  of  the  Burning 
Mount’  defy, 

And,  in  support  of  their  ladies’ 
charms, 

Challenge  all  chivalry  to  arms  !” 

But  how  looked  Esther  on  the  scene  ? 

Was  there  no  pleasure  in  the  place 

To  call  the  color  to  her  face  ? 

A  weary  sadness  veiled  her  mien  ; 

Her  eye,  which  took  the  splendor  in, 
’Mid  all  the  show  no  joy  could  win  ; 


60 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


For  in  her  patriotic  heart 
Another  picture,  far  apart, 

Rose,  with  its  drear,  contrasted  shade, 
Before  her  sympathetic  eye, 

Which  glistened  with  a  pitying 
damp. 

She  saw  the  starving  valley  camp, 
And  heard  the  sufferer’s  dying 
sigh,— 

Saw  all  the  hitter  wants  that 
weighed — 

Her  country’s  only  hope  and  trust — 
A  noble  army  to  the  dust ; 

And  even  when  her  champion  proud 
Bent  low,  a  gallant  knight  in 
black, 

She  scarcely  noticed  that  he  bowed  ; 
Her  sad  eye  paid  no  glances  hack. 

Again  the  flying  bugle’s  flash 

Across  the  waiting  scene  was 
pealed  ; 

Then  came  the  sudden  shock  and 
dash 

Of  spears  that  met  in  splintering 
crash 

On  every  loudly-ringing  shield. 
Then  sword  with  sword  together  rang 
With  many  a  fierce  and  fiery  clang, 
As  on  some  earnest  battle-field. 

Oh  for  the  pen  which  brave  Froissart 
Waved,  sword-like,  in  the  knightly 
van  ! 

Oh  for  the  pencil  and  the  art 
Of  battle-loving  Wouverman  ! 

That  on  my  page  might  be  unrolled 
Another  tourney  “  cloth  of  gold”  ! 

All  eyes  were  on  the  struggle  bent, 
And  every  gazer  forward  leant, 

Each  breathless  at  the  whirling 
sight,— 

When  dashed  in  midst  another 
knight, 

Driving  the  raging  foes  between, 
And,  like  a  whirlwind,  joined  the 
scene. 

His  tall  and  foaming  steed  was  black, 
And  reared  and  leapt  with  plunge 
and  wheel ; 

And  he  who  loomed  upon  his  back 
Wore  on  his  breast  a  plate  of  steel, 
While  on  his  head  a  helmet  shone 
With  flying  plume, — the  visor  down. 


The  armor  was  embossed  and  rich, 
And  seemed  to  Esther  to  recall 
The  helmet  and  the  breastplate  which 
Formed  part  of  that  within  the 
niche, — 

The  ancestral  suit  of  Berkley  Hall ; 
As  if  the  knight,  so  grim  and  tall, 
Finding  the  ancient  form  too  small, 
Content  to  shield  his  head  and  breast, 
Had  borrowed  but  cuirass  and  crest. 

His  raining  blows  were  swift  and  bold: 
No  sooner  was  his  weapon  set 
’Gainst  every  lifted  blade  he  met, 
Than  flew  that  blade  from  out  its 
hold ; 

While  many  a  bravest  knight, 
alarmed, 

Recoiled  apace,  abashed,  disarmed. 

But  when  he  met  the  searched-for  foe, 
Fair  Esther’s  champion  in  the  list, 
His  mighty  hand  could  not  resist, — 
He  dealt  an  angry,  giant’s  blow, — 
Perchance  it  was  intended  so : 

Somehow,  the  awkward  weapon 
missed — 

It  glanced  beyond  the  approaching 
head, 

And  on  the  “black  knight’s”  mouth 
instead 

Alit  the  great  hilt-clinching  fist ! 

A  blow  that  made  the  earth  swim 
round, 

And  sent  him  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

Then,  while  the  murmur  questioned 
loud, 

He  dashed  to  the  wondering  maid  and 
bowed, 

And  raised  her  white  glove  to  his  lip. 
Now  seemed  her  eye  to  understand  ; 
She  guessed  that  form  of  high  com¬ 
mand, 

And  felt  a  folded  paper  slip 

Stealthily  into  her  startled  hand  ; 
Then,  like  an  eagle  on  flashing  wing, 
He  sailed  beyond  the  wondering  ring. 

All  marvelled ;  but  few  guessed  the 
truth  : 

They  mostly  thought  it  in  the  play  ; 
And  even  the  knights,  with  frowns 
uncouth, 

And  many  a  savage  inward  oath, 
Were  pleased  among  themselves  to 
say 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


61 


That  some  hot-headed  frolic  youth 
Had  chosen  thus  to  share  the  day, 
By  dashing  in  the  jousting  fray, 
To  bear  the  highest  prize  away, 
And  leave  them  all  in  wondering 
doubt, 

As  oft  in  ancient  tourney-bout. 

The  two  commanders,  looking  on, 
Approved  the  novel  action  done, 

And  said,  in  accents  loud  and  bluff, 
The  brave  surprise  was  well  per¬ 
formed, 

And  that  it  was  a  knightly  thing, 
Although,  perchance,  a  little  rough. 

And  catching  this,  as  from  a  king, 

The  shout  of  joy  ran  round  the 
ring, 

Till  every  clapping  hand  was 
warmed, 

To  send  the  applause  on  circling 
wing. 

And  now  the  day  was  wellnigh  spent, 
And  evening  closed  the  tournament. 


hi. 

THE  BANQUET. 

Oh,  merry  and  good  is  a  blooming 
wood 

On  a  calm,  clear  afternoon, 

"When  every  maid,  in  a  flowery  hood, 
Sings,  as  every  maiden  should 
In  the  leafy  shades  of  June  : — 
When  every  light  form  wears  the 
proof 

Of  what  beneath  her  homestead  roof 
The  loom  of  Winter  weaves, — 

The  blue,  and  green,  and  scarlet  woof, 
The  white  and  flowing  sleeves: — 
When  every  archer  bends  his  bow, 

To  bid  the  laughing  arrow  go 
Among  the  laughing  leaves  ! 

And  merry  the  call  to  a  Christmas  hall, 
Where  nuts  and  ale  abound, 
Where  music,  with  gusty  rise  and 
fall, 

Chases  the  revellers  dancing  all 
In  many  a  mazy  round. 

But  louder,  clearer,  merrier  yet 
The  music  and  mirth  together  met 
What  time  the  evening  feast  was  set 


And  the  tournament  was  through  : 
The  knights  came  in,  each  waving 
plume 

Sending  a  murmur  through  the  room, 
And,  bowing  to  eyes  they  deemed 
most  sweet, 

Each  knelt  before  his  lady’s  feet, 

To  receive  the  trophy  due. 

But  where  was  Esther’s  champion? 
Had  he  no  tourney-honor  won  ? 

And  must  the  flower  her  turban 
wore 

Remain  unclaimed,  and  feel  the  blight 
Of  all  that  withering  festal  light? 
She  plucked  the  rose  with  fingers 
white, 

And  tore  the  leaves  before  their  sight, 
And  strewed  them  on  the  floor. 

That  feasting-hall  was  a  sight  to 
see, 

And,  seen,  it  must  remembered 
be : 

A  hundred  banners  lined  the  wall, 
Festooning  over  swords  and  spears, 
And  thrice  a  score  of  chandeliers 
Made  such  a  glory  through  the  hall 
As  only  summer  noonday  wears  ; 
And  many  a  mirror,  wide  and  tall, 
Decked  with  flowers  on  golden  piers, 
Caught  the  splendor,  and  echoed  it  all, 
As  if  to  stretch  the  gorgeous  place 
Into  the  outer  halls  of  space, 

As  it  were  to  last  a  thousand  years. 

All,  all  was  bright  as  summer  waves 
That  sing  and  dance  on  a  flowery 
shore, 

Where  the  billow  decks  the  bank  it 
laves 

With  pearls,  and  then  retreats  for 
more. 

The  only  shadows  around  the  feast 
Were  a  score  of  turbaned,  Nubian 
slaves 

Arrayed  in  livery  of  the  East. 

The  merriest  sounds  o’erflowed  the 
scene, 

While  flashed  the  brimming  wine 
between, 

Where  each,  from  the  cup  he  loved 
to  quaff, 

Caught  something  of  its  vineyard 
laugh. 


62 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  A  EL  EG  HA  NIES. 


There  was  whispered  love,  soft  words 
of  bliss, 

On  lips  Adonis  would  die  to  kiss, 
Rustle  of  silks,  and  rattle  of  fans, 

Tinkling  of  glasses,  and,  crowning 
this, 

Music  that  swelled  from  invisible 
clans : — 

Till,  closing  his  eyes, 'the  listener  heard 
The  rush  of  a  woodland  waterfall, 

And  all  the  leaves  of  the  forest  stirred 
By  a  flutter  of  wings,  and  the  noisy 
call 

Of  every  loudest-throated  bird. 

The  feast  was  past,  the  toast  was 
said, 

The  inevitable  speeches  made, 

And  the  long-cheered,  triumphant 
two 

Breathed  easier,  and  drank  anew. 

’Twas  now  that  one  of  the  leading 
knights 

Bowed,  and,  with  soft  persuasion 
long, 

Prayed,  as  a  wreath  to  their  delights, 
Our  maid  would  crown  the  hour 
with  song. 

In  vain  her  timid  lips  demurred  : 

The  praise  of  her  voice  so  much  was 
heard, 

They  would  not  take  the  denying 
word. 

In  view  of  this,  a  harp  had  been, 

Only  a  moment  past,  brought  in. 

And  there  in  a  flood  of  light  it  shone 

Golden  on  its  waiting  throne. 

At  length,  upon  her  father’s  arm, 
And  bidding  her  page  beside  her 
stay, 

She  went,  though  tremorous  with 
alarm, 

And  Andre,  bowing,  led  the  way. 
She  gained  the  throne,  and  sat 
thereon  : 

Her  breath  came  short  for  such  a 
need  ; 

One  glance  across  the  room  she  sent, 

A  thousand  eyes  were  on  her  bent ; 
They  seemed  a  thousand  arrows 
drawn, 

And  she  the  victim  that  must 
bleed. 


One  long  sustaining  breath  she  drew, 
Her  drooping  lids  shut  out  the  view, — 
Till,  suddenly  dashing  her  veil  aside, 
And  flinging  her  golden  ringlets  wide, 
Her  arms  around  the  harp  she  pressed, 
Loving  it  with  her  loving  breast, 

As  if  its  touch  her  fears  might 
smother. 

And  now  her  hands  along  the 
strings 

Plashed  daringly  across  each  other, 
As  when  two  birds,  at  dividing  wires, 
Outsinging  all  the  woodland  choirs, 
Plutter  with  half-invisible  wings. 

When  climbed  her  fingers  high  and 
higher, 

Twinkling  among  the  treble  notes 
There  seemed  unnumbered  silver 
throats, 

Thrilling  the  sky  with  wild  desire  ; 
Then  sudden  lightnings  flashed  their 
fire, 

Till,  in  the  heavier  chords  below, 

The  thunder  dealt  its  rumbling  blow  ; 
And  now  the  rain  was  shivered  down, 
And  all  the  tempest-bugles  blown. 

Then  came  her  voice :  at  first  ’twas  low, 
Like  a  sweet  brook  among  the 
rushes ; 

But,  like  that  brook,  its  further  flow 
Swelled  soon  to  fuller,  nobler 
gushes. 


SONG. 

i. 

In  the  vanished  time  and  olden, 
Ere  the  ages  yet  were  golden, 

A  great  king  ruled  his  misty  isles 
In  sullen  state  alone, 

Till,  hearing  of  a  maiden 
With  marvellous  beauty  laden, 

He  swore  she  must  be  brought  to  him. 
To  tend  beside  his  throne. 


n. 

And  forthwith  every  vassal 
Who  dwelt  beside  his  castle 
Was  sent  to  bring  the  maiden  in 
Before  the  morrow  morn  ; 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


63 


And  straightway  to  her  bower 
They  went  in  all  their  power : 

But  she  met  them  with  her  noble  mien 
And  scorned  them  with  her  scorn. 


m. 

“  Go,  tell  your  tyrant  master 
Earth  threatens  no  disaster 
So  direful  to  a  maiden’s  soul 
As  is  a  monarch’s  smile  ; 

That  Death  shall  wed  me  rather 
’Neath  the  roof-tree  of  my  father, 
Than  I  should  serve  the  greatest  king 
That  ever  ruled  an  isle.” 


IV. 

Then  laughed  they  loud  derision 
At  the  poor  defenceless  vision 
Of  a  simple  maid  who  dared  alone 
Defy  their  mighty  king  ; 

“Then  come,”  they  cried,  “the 
trial ; 

Our  lord  brooks  no  denial : 

Your  slender  wrists  must  bear  the 
bands 

Our  master  bade  us  bring.” 


v. 

But,  firm  in  her  reliance, 

With  a  glance  of  fierce  defiance 
She  looked  into  their  cowering  eyes, 
That  drooped  as  in  disgrace  ! 

But,  remembering  royal  anger, 
With  a  sudden  clash  and  clangor 
They  drew  their  mighty  falchions 
forth 

And  flashed  them  in  her  face. 


vi. 

A  moment,  as  in  sadness, 

She  looked  upon  their  madness, 
With  calm,  white' arms  serenely  there 
Upon  her  bosom  laid  ; 

Then,  with  no  thrill  of  terror, 

But  smiling  at  their  error, 

Three  times  she  clapped  her  snowy 
hands, 

And  signalled  thus  for  aid. 


VII. 

Three  times  her  palms  resounded, 
And  at  once  she  stood  surrounded 
By  noble  brothers  rushing  in 
From  every  native  field : 

Their  forms  were  rough  and  tawny, 
But  their  limbs  were  lithe  and 
brawny, 

And,  instead  of  taking  captives  there, 
The  captors  now  must  yield. 


VIII. 

And,  against  their  own  consenting, 
She  sent  them  back  repenting. 

The  mad  king  cropt  their  coward  ears 
To  satisfy  his  wrath  : 

And  still  that  noble  maiden, 

With  all  her  beauty  laden, 

Went  singing  on  her  happy  way, 
With  honor  in  her  path. 

Scarce  had  the  last  word  left  her 
tongue, 

And  while  the  chord  still  trembling 
hung 

From  which  the  bird-like  note  had 
sprung, 

There  rose  a  tumult  wild  without,20 
A  hurried  rush  of  loud  alarms, 

The  flash  of  flames,  the  sentinel’s 
shout, 

With  startled  drums  that  beat  to 
arms. 

The  shuddering  guests  no  more  could 
doubt, 

But  quaked  to  think  the  rebel  crew 
Had  burst  in  all  their  midnight 
power 

Upon  them,  in  their  revel  hour, 

To  act  the'  Trenton  scene  anew. 

What  meant  that  glow  whose  fearful 
shine 

Illumined  the  abatis-line, 

Which  fired  the  scene,  as  if  to  light 

The  horrors  of  the  coming  fight? 

Now  could  they  hear  the  mounted 
troop 

Like  hungry  vultures  round  them 
swoop, 

And  see  the  clattering  hoofs  of  steel 

Where  lightning  flashed  from  every 
heel. 


64 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


Out  rushed  the  guardian  ranks  aflame, 
To  put  the  intruding  crew  to  shame  ; 
But,  strange  to  tell,  without  a  blow, 
To  say  that  there  had  been  the  foe, 
The  troopers  fled,  and  left  behind 
Their  mocking  laughter  on  the  wind. 

The  guards  pursued  them  past  the 
town, 

By  the  same  road  which  brought  them 
down, 

And  soon  the  sentinels  descried 
The  line  returning,  flushed  with  pride. 

Then  laughter  filled  the  hall  again, 
While  pleasure  took  the  place  of  pain, 
And  every  happy  face  was  lit 
With  this  fresh  source  of  mirth  and 
wit, 

And  music  spread  its  circling  wing 
To  lead  the  dance  in  ampler  swing. 

But  what  was  wrong  ?  What  ailed 
Sir  Hugh  ? 

Why  sought  he  thus  the  assembly 
through  ? 

What  were  thequestions  hewould  pour 
At  every  outward-leading  door? 

At  last  he  stood,  with  sigh  long 
drawn, — 

Both  Ugo  and  the  maid  were  gone. 

One  said  that  while  the  guardian  troop 
Had  gone  to  beat  the  rebels  hack, 
He  saw  descend  a  hasty  group 

Across  the  lawn,  and  some  were 
black, — 

A  part  of  that  same  turbaned  horde 
Who  tended  while  the  wine  was 
poured, — 

And  that  they  moved  towards  a 
barque  : — 

To  shield  them,  then,  the  white 
moon  bowed 

Behind  a  heavy  wall  of  cloud  : — 
He  saw  no  more,  for  all  was  dark. 


IY. 

THE  BBOTHEES. 

What  light  illumes  the  eagle’s  ken, 
And  flames  his  breast  with  Free¬ 
dom’s  rage, 

The  first  wild  daring  instant  when 
He  soars  beyond  his  broken  cage  ! 


How  glows  the  lion’s  eye  of  fire, 
Brighter  than  lit  with  midnight  ire, 
The  moment  when  he  sees  the  bar 
Half  drawn  that  leaves  the  door  ajar  I 
How  proudly  he  exalts  his  mane 
That  first  hour  on  the  open  plain ! 

When  from  the  winter’s  captive  hold 
The  young  spring  takes  the  freedom 
won, 

While  all  his  fetters  crystal  cold 
Melt  like  a  vision  in  the  sun  : — 

Then  every  river,  brook,  and  rill 
Feels  its  deep  heart  with  pleasure 
thrill ; 

Then  sing  the  birds,  and  every  tree 
Waves  its  gay  hands  for  jollity. 

What  joy,  my  own  dear  land,  was 
thine, 

What  pleasure  filled  thy  breast  of 
sorrow, 

As  if  the  heart  were  pulsing  wine, — 
What  glorious  sunshine  filled  the 
noon 

That  cloudless,  jubilant  day  in  June 
Which  said,  “The  foe  will  leave 
to-morrow  1” 

“  To-morrow  !”  every  glad  eye-glance 
To  that  sweet  music  seemed  to  dance  : 
Youth  spread  the  shout  from  first  to 
last, 

And  Age  new  vigor  seemed  to  bor¬ 
row, 

And  stranger-face's,  as  they  passed, 
Looked  that  masonic  word,  “  To¬ 
morrow  !” 

The  happy  country  heard -afar 
The  answer  of  its  long  desires , 
Swift  sped  the  news  from  hill  to 
hill, 

O’er  plain  and  valley  wandering 
still, 

As  if  on  every  mountain-bar 
Was  lit  the  flame  of  signal-fires. 

And  there  were  eyes  in  Berkley  Hall, 
That,  bright  before,  were  now 
more  bright — 

Young  breasts  that  in  their  rise  and 
fall 

Were  thrilled  with  uncontrolled 
delight. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


65 


Yet  there  beneath  the  Berkley  roof 
Were  looks  that  angered  at  the 
proof, — 

Dark,  sullen  brows,  which  seemed  to 
say 

The  morn  would  bring  a  hateful  day. 
’Twas  hard  to  see  the  old  reins  slip 
Prom  out  their  doting  monarch’s  grip; 
And  so,  to  nerve  them  for  the  worst, 
The  purple  flask  must  cheer  the 
hour, 

That  they  at  least  might  slake  their 
thirst 

For  wine,  if  not  for  tyrant  power. 

“  To-morrow,  Colonel,  you  depart 
This  was  the  greeting  of  Sir  Hugh. 
“  Believe  me  when  I  say  my  heart 
Is  sad  to  part  with  such  as  you. 

I  hoped  ere  this — hut  hopes  are  vain  : 

There  is  a  higher  Wisdom  rules: — 
Though  wise  His  ways,  they  are  not 
plain : 

’Tis  strange,  and  yet  He  sometimes 
deigns 

To  give  an  empire’s  guiding  reins 
Into  the  hardy  hands  of  fools  : — 
I  hoped  ere  this — that  hope  at  least 
Holds  good,  and  shall  not  be  denied — 
To  see  my  family-board  increased, 

To  see  my  daughter  at  your  side 
A  lovely  and  contented  bride. 

“  How  stands  your  glass  ?  The  room 
is  dim  : 

Methinks  the  twilight  settles  soon, 
In  spite  of  the  long  days  of  June ; 
And  yonder  rises  the  red  moon, 

As  if  wine  flushed  her  golden  brim. 
So  flush  your  glass  ;  for  wine,  in  truth, 
Which  sparkles  in  these  founts  of 
ours, 

Is  that  perpetual  Spring  of  Youth 
Which  Ponce  de  Leon  strove,  forsooth , 
To  find  within  the  land  of  flowers. 
Then  never  let  our  spirits  sink, 

Though  Time  and  Fate  their  worst 
pursue, 

While  at  the  bacchanalian  brink 
Our  hearts  their  qourage  may  renew. 

“  Ay,  courage, — ’tis  the  soldier’s 
word : 

The  hour  is  brighter  than  it  seems  ; 
To-day,  even  while  you  stood  deterred, 
I  caught  from  hope  some  clearer 
gleams. 

5 


“  Did  you  not  notice,  when  we  came, 
And  after  my  first  warm  embrace, 
How  flushed  her  cheek  and  eye  with 
flame 

When  she  looked  up  and  saw  your 
face  ? 

I  felt  her  little  wild  heart  leap, 

That  moment,  in  my  clasping  hand : 
For  Love,  when  he  would  safely  keep 
His  head  in  secret  hiding  deep, 

Is  but  an  ostrich  in  the  sand. 

“  What  though  her  look  no  hope 
awakes, 

Bepelling  with  disdainful  eye, 

’Tis  but  the  course  the  salmon  takes, 
In  scornful  distance  pausing  shy  ; 
Just  when  you  think  your  toil  is 
vain, 

And  when  he  chiefly  shows  disdain, 
With  sudden  whirl  he  takes  the 
fly! 

What  though  her  mien  conceals  the 
spell, 

Believe  me,  friend,  she  loves  you  well. 

“Who  spoke?  Who  dared  to  give 
the  lie  ? 

Ho,  Steward  !  lights  !” 

The  lights  were  brought, 
And  every  secret  hiding-place 
Was  peered  into  with  angry  face. 

The  furious  searching  furnished 
naught 

To  meet  his  pistol’s  ready  rage, 
Except  a  parrot  in  his  cage  : 

Yes,  surely  ’twas  that  silly  bird 
Who  uttered  the  obnoxious  word. 
They  laughed,  and  sat :  the  wine  must 
serve 

To  smooth  again  the  ruffled  nerve. 

“  To  prove,  my  friend,  my  words 
sincere, 

I  have  the  paper  ready  here.” 

Thus  spake  Sir  Hugh.  “  It  only 
waits 

For  the  contracting  names  and  dates  : 
’Tis  quickly  done.  There,  mine  se¬ 
cures 

The  seal ;  and  now,  my  friend,  for 
yours. 

By  Jove!  your  pen  flies  o’er  the 
word 

With  all  the  flourish  of  a  sword! 


66 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


“The  maiden’s  name?  Ah,  never 
doubt : 

That  with  the  rest  shall  soon  appear. 
Ho,  Steward,  seek  your  mistress  out 
And  bid  her  to  attend  me  here  J” 

In  Berkley’s  breast  resolve  was  stern, 
For  in  his  proud  parental  heart, 
Remembering  with  what  willing  art 
Her  favor  took  the  patriots’  part, 
He  felt  a  deep  resentment  burn. 

Although  he  loved  her  fondly  still, 
Yet,  though  all  else  should  be  denied, 
She  should  not  set  her  rebel  will 
Against  this  last  hope  of  his  pride : 

It  may  be  that  the  flush  of  wine 
Gave  vigor  to  his  fixed  design. 

Young  Esther  came :  her  eye  was 
bright 

As  if  ’twere  brimmed  with  love’s  own 
light ; 

Then  flowed  her  maiden  accents  clear, 
“  What  would  you,  father  ?  I  am 
here.” 

“  A  trifling  service,”  he  replied  ; — 
There  was  a  strangeness  in  the  tone 
Which  turned  her  inmost  heart  to 
stone : — 

“  Before  these  written  names  are  dried, 
Let  yours  be  drying  at  their  side.” 

With  wondering  countenance  ad¬ 
vanced, 

Her  eye  across  the  paper  glanced ; 
Her  visage  showed  a  lightning- 
blight, — 

The  color  from  her  cheek  was  blown, 
As  when  from  otf  some  festal  height 
The  fierce  bolt  strikes  the  banner 
down. 

Before  her  flashed  the  ready  quill, 
The  black  blood  waiting  at  the 
point ; 

Across  her  swept  a  deathly  chill 
That  agued  every  sinking  joint: 

A  very  statue,  mute  and  white, 

She  stood,  till  came  the  order, 
“  Write !” 

“  Nay,  father:  any  thing  but  this, — 
If  ’twere  to  die  at  your  command  !” 
He  answered,  “  My  sole  order  is 
To  write !  The  pen  is  in  your 
hand  !” 


’Twas  there ;  for  he  had  placed  it 
there, — 

He  seized  her  by  the  slender  wrist. — 
“  Oh,  help  !”  she  cried. 

u  Nay,  to  assist 

In  your  rebellion  who  shall  dare?” 

He  answered  firmly,  at  the  word, 

Tapping  his  pistol  and  his  sword. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  paper  prest : 
Both  watched  it  with  their  anxious 
ken ; 

The  blood  was  curdling  in  her  breast, 
A  deadly  pallor  veiled  her  mien, 
The  room  swam  round  in  darkness, 
— when 

An  iron  hand  was  thrust  between, 
Which  snatched  and  crushed  the 
crackling  pen  ! 


Three  paces  back,  with  shuddering 
reel, 

All  started,  in  their  horror  dumb  ; 

Their  tongues  even  as  their  hearts 
were  numb ; 

For  there  a  voiceless  form  of  steel 

Stood  glowering  as  with  threatening 
will ; 

For,  though  the  visor  close  was 
down, 

The  very  iron  seemed  to  frown, 

The  clinching  gauntlet  grasping 
still 

The  crumpled  remnant  of  the  quill. 

Within  the  waning  light  and  gloom 

To  giant  size  it  seemed  to  loom  : 

Such  necromantic  power  has  fright 

To  give  to  objects  double  height. 


While  now  the  gazers  stood  aghast, 
The  form,  with  slow  and  backward 
pace, 

Confronting  still  with  iron  face, 
Retiring,  reached  the  throne  at  last 
Where  stood  the  maiden’s  harp  of 
gold. 

Still  paler  grew  the  lights  and  dim, — 
Or  so  the  frighted  fancy  told, — 
While  phantom  lustre  seemed  to  swim 
About  that  form  so  ghostly  grim  ; 
And,  just  behind,  the  moon’s  broad 
rim 

Seemed  to  the  very  casement  rolled, 
A  spectral  chariot  waiting  him : 

The  gazers’  blood  ran  doubly  cold 
And  palsied  every  limb. 


“An  iron  hand  was  thrust  between.” 


Page  66, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


67 


But  stranger  still  it  was  to  see 
The  form  slow  sinking  on  one  knee, 

Upon  the  harp’s  enthroning  stand, 
While  in  his  stretching  arms  he  took 
The  frame,  whose  chords  in  terror 
shook 

Ere  scarce  they  felt  the  iron  hand. 

Slow  o’er  the  strings  the  gauntlets 
stole : — 

(That  gloves  of  steel  showed  little 
skill 

In  answering  to  the  player’s  will, 
Such  audience  would  scarcely  won¬ 
der;) — 

But,  with  a  strange,  weird  music 
still, 

That  wailed  above,  then  rumbled 
under, 

He  played  as  ’twere  a  funeral  dole 

Chanted  by  distant  winds  and 
thunder ; 

And  when  from  out  the  helmet  broke 

The  words  in  many  a  dying  close, 
It  seemed  as  if  a  cavern  spoke 

The  burden  of  long-hidden  woes. 


SONG. 

i. 

A  shade  has  crossed  the  hill,  Sir 
Hugh, 

A  shade  has  crossed  the  lawn  ; 

And  where  its  phantom  feet  have 
gone, 

So  lightly  were  they  pressed  there¬ 
on, 

They  did  not  brush  the  evening 
dew, 

Sir  Hugh, 

They  did  not  brush  the  dew. 
ii. 

A  gloom  is  on  your  house,  Sir 
Hugh, 

Your  sire  frowns  on  the  wall, — 

Where  frown  those  painted  shad¬ 
ows  all, 

Now  pale  and  shuddering  o’er  your 
fall: 

The  last  of  all  the  name  are  you, 
Sir  Hugh, 

The  last  of  all  are  you. 


hi. 

Your  royal  cause  is  lost,  Sir  Hugh  ; 

Your  king  recoils  aghast ; 

His  day  of  tyrant  power  is  past : 
Of  all  his  friends  you  are  the  last, 
Last  of  your  cause  and  name  are 
you, 

Sir  Hugh, 

The  last  of  all  are  you. 


IV. 

The  last  of  all  are  you,  Sir  Hugh, 

Echoes  the  owl  aloof, — 

The  last  of  all, — upon  the  roof 

The  whippoorwill  prolongs  the 
proof: — 

Adieu  to  Berkley  Hall, — adieu, 

Sir  Hugh, 

To  Berkley  Hall  adieu. 

“Behold!  Sir  Hugh,  be  not  dis¬ 
mayed  !” 

The  suitor  cried,  and  drew  his  blade. 

“  Do  you  not  see  it  is  the  same 

Who  boldly  to  our  tourney  came 

A  rough,  unbidden  guest  and  foe  ? 

I  have  not  yet  forgiven  the  blow : 

Though  it  were  years,  in  twice  the 
gloom 

I  still  would  know  that  helm  and 
plume.” 

Through  Berkley’s  brain  the  light¬ 
ning  sped, 

And,  casting  round  his  glances 
quick, 

Sir  Hugh  the  empty  niche  espied  ; 

Then,  with  an  angry  laugh,  he 
cried, 

“A  trick!  By  heaven!  a  rebel 
trick !” 

And  scarcely  had  the  words  been 
said, 

The  room  was  blinded  with  a  flash  : 

The  iron  vision  forward  sprung, 

And  reeled  the  frighted  group  among ; 

And  now  the  floor  received  the 
crash 

Of  one  who  falls  in  armor  dead. 

Alas  !  if  there  was  aught  within 

But  ghost,  to  brave  that  bolt  of  lead, 

That  shining  breastplate  was  too 
thin ! 


68  the  wagoner  of 

The  door,  by  sudden  fury  thrust, 
Swung  wide,  and  hurrying  men 
strode  in, 

And  one,  whose  voice  was  like  a  gust, 
Cried, “  Wherefore  all  this  murder¬ 
ous  din  ?” 

Then,  following  Sir  Hugh’s  wild  stare, , 
He  saw  the  fallen  armor  there, 

And  saw  from  out  the  iron  seam 
A  mortal  tide  of  crimson  stream. 
With  hurried  stride  he  crossed  the 
floor, 

And  knelt  beside  the  pool  of  gore, 
With  rapid  hand  the  visor  threw, 
And  started  backward  at  the  view, 
One  look  told  all, — no  need  of  more: — 
Prom  out  its  sheath  his  weapon  flew. 

“Behold,”  he  cried,  “O  wretch, 
behold 

The  murderous  work  your  hand  has 
done ! 

Ay,  stare  upon  that  visage  cold, 

And  recognize,  mad  fool,  your  son  ! 
But,  while  there’s  strength  within 
this  hand 

And  steel  of  vengeance  in  this  brand, 
Your  heart  shall  pour  a  stream  as 
good, 

Even  though  I  shed  a  brother’s 
blood  I” 

That  moment  he  had  forward  sprung, 
But  Esther  on  his  right  arm  flung 
Her  form,  and  there  she  pleading 
clung. 

Then  stood  Sir  Hugh  as  one  who  seems 
Chained  amid  horrid  nightmare- 
dreams  ; 

Though  fain  to  fly  the  sight  of  gore, 
His  feet  were  frozen  to  the  floor. 

At  length  he  stammered,  still  with 
stare 

Fixed  on  the  pallid  visage  there, 

“  A  lie  ! — a  lie  !  I  had  no  son, 

And  surely  never  such  a  one  !” 

To  which  the  other  cried  again, 

‘  ‘  Thy  son ,  proud  fool ,  and  son  of  her 
Whose  noble  heart  by  you  was 
slain, — 

O  cold  and  double  murderer  !” 

Still  staring  with  unmoving  eye, 

He  said, — or  rather  seemed  to  sigh, — 


THE  ALLEGHANIES. 

“  I  never  killed  her :  if  she  died, 

It  was  not  here - ” 

“  Your  bitter  pride 
Struck  at  her  heart,  until  her  brain 
By  many  a  cold,  proud  word  was 
slain !” 

The  wagoner  answered  ;  and  the  taunt 
At  last  awoke  the  Berkley  blood. 

“Who  dares,”  he  cried,  in  furious 
mood, 

“  Thus  in  my  face  such  words  to 
flaunt  ? 

And  who  art  thou,  who  ne’er  before 
Save  once,  a  rude,  unwelcome  guest, 
Was  known  to  enter  at  my  door? 
What  rebel  thou,  whose  coward  breast 
Dares  breathe  the  insult  uttered 
now  ?” 

“  Pray,  not  so  fast,”  the  other  cried. 
“  A  moment  clear  your  clouded 
brow, 

And  let  your  memory  allow 
I  am  not  one  to  be  defied ! 

That  picture  there  may  well  attest 
Whose  courage  ever  was  the  best, 
And  which  it  was  who  quaked  with 
fear 

The  moment  danger  came  too  near. 

I  scorned  you  even  as  a  child, 

Proud,  cold,  and  selfish  as  you  were  $ 
A  younger  brother,  oft  reviled, 

I  would  not  be  your  pensioner, 
And  so  I  left  you  to  yourself, 

With  all  your  boasted  pride  and  pelf. 

“  A  rebel  ! — nay,  let  that  foul  name 
Flush  your  own  coward  cheek  with 
shame : 

’Tis  ye  are  black  Rebellion's  knaves, 
Traitors  to  Freedom  and  to  God, 
Who  dare  upon  this  sacred  sod 
Exalt  the  slave-compelling  rod, 
Being  slaves  yourselves,  to  make  us 
slaves ! 

“  While  throbs  a  heart, — while  Hea¬ 
ven  is  just, — 

While  on  the  banner  of  our  trust 
One  star  remains  to  fight  beneath, 
No  blade  of  ours  shall  seek  its 
sheath, 

No  cannon  hold  its  direful  breath, 
Till  on  the  bitter  field  of  death 
The  bold  enslaver  bites  the  dust. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


69 


Already,  even  as  pictured  there, 

The  joy  has  oft  been  mine  to  take 
In  this  good  grasp  the  tyrant  snake 
And  fling  him  writhing  in  despair.” 

uMy  brother,  thou?”  Sir  Hugh  re¬ 
plied, 

The  while  the  wagoner’s  form  he 
eyed, 

Scanning  in  scorn,  from  head  to  foot, 
The  patriot’s  rough  and  rustic  suit. 

“  ’Tis  false  !  No  Berkley  scion  yet 
His  high-born  lineage  could  forget, 
To  wear  such  rude  and  menial  form 
And  be  the  thing  which  thou  art 
now  !” — 

He  spake,  and  back  recoiled  a  pace 
Before  the  anger  of  that  face  : 

He  dared  no  further  brook  the  storm 
Which  gathered  on  that  threaten¬ 
ing  brow. 

But  now  his  troubled  eye  again 
Was  cast  upon  the  stripling  slain, 
And,  with  a  look  which  strove  in 
vain 

To  hide  the  doubt  within  his  brain, 
He  cried,  “  ’Tis  false!  No  blood  of 
mine 

E’er  wandered  vagrant  through  the 
land ; 

No  Berkley  son  would  raise  a  hand 
In  honor  of  the  rebel  line ! 

No  child  of  mine - ” 

His  speech  was  stayed  ; 
He  glared  upon  the  trembling  maid. 
“Well  mayst  thou  tremble!”  he  re¬ 
sumed, 

“  And  sink  with  burning  shame  con¬ 
sumed, 

Whose  recreant  heart  and  rebel  eye 
Now  give  our  loyal  blood  the  lie ! 

’Tis  thou,  with  disobedience  long, 
This  sad  and  direful  scene  hast 
wrought, — 

Firing  the  youth  with  rebel  thought 
And  filling  his  soul  with  rebel  song  ; 
But  that  shall  end  !”  And,  at  the 
word, 

Across  the  harp  he  flashed  his  sword 
And  severed  every  trembling  chord. 

“  Strike  on  !” — this  was  the  wagoner’s 
taunt : 

“  Such  courage  ever  was  your  vaunt: 
With  no  mere  stripling  sons  to  kill, 
On  other  innocents  wreak  vour  fill !” 

4- 


“Still  must  I  hear?”  Sir  Hugh  re¬ 
plied  ; 

“  Are  my  assertions  all  denied? 

The  boy  was  never  son  of  mine, 
Though  harbored  long  beneath  my 
roof: 

In  shades  condemned,  or  realms 
divine, 

That  truant  woman’s  wandering  ghost 

No  Berkley  offspring  dares  to  boast: — 
I  challenge  every  proof!” 

« 

The  wagoner  turned,  and  whispered, 
“  Hark ! 

What  newer  misery  thrills  the  dark? 

What  voice  is  that  approaching  near  ? 

Sir  Hugh  ! — Sir  Hugh  ! — look  up  and 
hear  1” 

Thus  as  he  spoke,  a  mournful  air 

Seemed  winding  down  the  shadowy 
stair, 

Still  nearing  and  more  near  ;  and  soon 

The  words  came  clearly  with  the  tune. 


SONG. 

i. 

Oh,  cold  was  the  bridegroom, 

All  frozen  with  pride  : 

He  first  slew  her  lover, 

Then  made  her  his  bride. 

n. 

Beneath  a  green  willow, 

And  under  a  stone, 

They  buried  her  lover, 

And  left  her  alone. 

hi. 

With  naught  but  the  bridegroom's 
Proud  breast  for  her  head, 

Oh,  how  could  she  live  when 
Her  lover  was  dead  ? 

IY. 

Her  body  they  buried 
Beside  the  church  wall  ; 

Her  ghost  with  the  bridegroom 
Sat  up  in  the  hall : — 


70 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


v. 

Sat  up  at  his  table, 

Lay  down  in  his  bed : — 

Oh,  cold  was  the  bridegroom, — 
But  colder  the  dead  ! 

The  singer  entered.  "Was  it  a  ghost, 
Or  sleeper  walking  unaware  ? 

Her  large  eyes,  as  in  revery  lost, 

Bent  forward  their  unearthly  stare  ; 
"Wild  o’er  her  shoulders  fell  her 
hair  ; 

Her  face  was  like  her  garments  white  ; 
Her  thin  hands  bore  a  wavering  light, 
Which  shed  a  pale  and  mournful 
glare 

Across  those  features  of  despair. 

Still  forward  walked  that  form  of  awe, 
As  if  her  wide  eyes  nothing  saw, 
Until,  in  middle  of  the  room, 

The  centre  of  that  scene  of  gloom, 
She  cast  a  slow,  dull  glance  around, 
And  looked  as  she  had  nothing  found  : 
Across  their  very  faces  past 

Those  eyes  to  which  all  seemed  a 
blank, 

Till  on  the  floor  her  glance  was  cast ; 
And  there,  as  that  look  was  her  last, 
She  gazed  upon  those  features  white  ; 
From  out  her  fingers  dropt  the  light, 
And  on  the  armored  breast  she 
sank. 

It  needed  but  that  last  wild  gust 
Of  grief  to  blow  from  Nora’s  frame 
Life’s  low,  unsteady,  flickering 
flame, 

And  leave  it  dark  and  soulless  dust. 

“Sir  Hugh! — Sir  Hugh!”  He  was 
not  there : 

Sir  Hugh  was  gone,  they  knew  not 
where. 

But  there  the  haughty  suitor  stood, 
His  bright  sword  flashing  in  his 
hand, 

As  if  the  keen,  defying  brand 
His  nuptial  claim  should  still  make 
good. 

This  saw  the  wagoner,  as  he  laid 
On  Edgar’s  arm  the  fainting  maid ; 
And,  ere  the  soldier  was  aware, 

He  stood  without  a  weapon  there  : 


His  sword  was  in  the  patriot’s  hold, 
Who  with  a  look  of  scorn  surveyed 

The  face  so  lately  flushed  and  bold  ; 

Then,  with  contemptuous  movement 
fleet, 

Across  his  knee  he  snapped  the 
blade, 

And  flung  it  at  the  wearer’s  feet, 

And  now,  the  wide  door  pointing 
through, 

Exclaimed,  with  sad  but  threatening 
brow, 

“  Depart !  The  place  is  sacred  now  : 
Go,  follow  thou  Sir  Hugh  !” 


CONCLUSION. 

My  friend  abruptly  closed  the  book : 

I  felt  as  one  who  long  had  sailed 
Gazing  with  anxious  landward  look, — 
Who,  just  as  the  fair  port  is  hailed, 
And  the  rough  prow  goes  dipping  in, 
Suddenly  hears  the  anchor’s  din, 

And,  lo  !  the  ship  is  at  full  stand  : 
There  move  the  people  on  the  land, 
And  there  are  voices  from  the  beach, 
But  mournfully  all  out  of  reach. 

My  face  the  crowding  questions  wore  : 

He  said,  “  A  little  patience  yet, 
And  soon  the  landing  skiff  and  oar 
Your  feet  upon  the  shore  shall  set.” 
Then  at  the  sinking  fire  his  hands 
Gathered  and  piled  the  sundered 
brands, 

Until  the  hearth  was  reillumed: 
“’Tis  thus,”  he  said,  “the  story 
stands : — 

A  fallen  end  or  two  demands 
To  be  regathered  and  consumed. 

“  How  goes  the  wine?  ’Tis  rare  and 
old : 

Or  do  you  taste  the  earthy  mould  ? 
Some  seasons  past,  while  men  of  mine 
Were  hollowing  out  an  amplespace 
To  give  our  hothouse-wall  its  base, 
I  stood  to  watch  them  bravely  delve 
And  see  they  followed  well  the  line, 
When  suddenly  to  its  very  helve 
The  pick  went  in  with  crush  and  crash, 
Spattering  all  with  a  purple  splash  ; 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


71 


And  when  withdrawn — oh,  murder¬ 
ous  sign  ! — 

’Twas  bathed  in  the  streaming  blood 
of  wine. 

How  it  came  there  to  you  is  plain, 
And  this  brings  up  Sir  Hugh  again. 
’Tis  said  that  on  that  night  of  pain 
He  rushed  into  the  moonlit  air, 

And  sped  for  hours  he  knew  not 
where, 

Through  fields  and  woods,  by  the 
rivers  brim, 

With  two  sad  phantoms  following 
him  ; — 

How  once,  just  as  he  thought  he  saw 
The  crowning  horror  of  his  awe, 

The  murdered  stripling  in  his  path 
Rise  with  confronting  eyes  of  wrath, 
He  reeled  and  staggered,  fainted,  fell, 
And  lay  at  the  feet  of  a  sentinel ; 

And  when  he  awoke,  and  the  horrid 
mists 

From  otf  his  aching  brow  were 
blown, 

He  found  himself  within  the  town, 
Among  the  guards  of  the  royalists. 

“  He  recognized  the  hand  of  Fate  ; 
And,  after  writing  a  hurried  scrawl, 
Giving  his  daughter  Berkley  Hall21 
And  his  blessing  with  the  broad  estate, 
He  boarded  a  ship  and  felt  more  free 
While  bidding  adieu  to  river  and 
hay; 

But  his  heart  was  withering  day  by 
day, 

And  at  last  they  buried  him  far  at  sea. 

“The  lovers?  Ah,  more  sweet  the  lay 
Should  be  which  sings  of  those  so 
dear  : 

It  is  not  long  since,  old  and  gray, 

My  sainted  parents  passed  from 
here. 

“  If  ’twere  not  that  the  fire  is  low, 
And  chanticleer  awakes  to  throw 
His  midnight  signal  on  the  air, 

A  sacred  scene  should  newly  glow 
Of  that  beloved  and  loving  pair. 

“  My  mother’s  favorite  seat  was  there, 
And  this  my  father’s  high-backed 
chair  : 

How  clearly  comes  the  long-gone  scene 
When  I  a  child  sat  here  between  ! 


“  One  night, — I  well  recall  thehour, — 
Just  when  our  second  war  was  past, 
The  winds  were  howling  o’er  the  tower, 
The  snow  its  gulfy  deluge  poured, 
And  up  the  chimney  like  a  blast 
The  flame  from  off  the  hickory 
roared, 

Against  the  outer  door  a  blow 

Sounded  like  a  blacksmith’s  sledge, 
And,  waiting  no  further  privilege, 
Entered,  it  seemed,  the  Prince  of 
Snow, — 

A  veteran  of  giant  height, 

With  wild  locks  like  his  garments 
white. 

The  heavy  stamping  and  the  beat, 
Which  piled  a  drift  within  the  hall, 
Rang  through  the  house  and 
wakened  all 

The  echoes  to  announce  his  feet. 

So  thick  the  cloud  he  scattered  wide. 
And  so  majestic  was  the  fling, 

He  seemed  a  very  arctic  king 
Throwing  his  furry  robe  aside. 

“  My  sire,  awakened  by  the  stir, 
Gazed  through  the  door  with  shaded 
eyes, 

Puzzled  a  moment  with  vague  sur¬ 
prise  ; 

But  when  he  saw  that  giant  size, 
And  heard  the  voice  of  bluff  replies, 
He  knew  and  welcomed  the  Wagoner. 

“  Had  you  beheld  him  stride  the  floor, 
You  ne’er  had  guessed  how  many  a 
score 

Of  years  had  blown  their  changeful  air 
Through  those  white  locks  to  whiten 
there. 

“We  offered  him  this  cushioned  seat : 
He  took  yon  great  oak  chair  in¬ 
stead, — 

It  felt  more  saddle-like,  he  said, — 
And  flung  him  down  with  wide¬ 
spread  feet. 

“  ‘  ’Tis  seventy  years,’  he  cried,  ‘or 
more, 

Since  first  I  backed  a  good  stout 
steed ; 

And  though  to-day  with  as  fearless 
speed 

I  rode  as  in  the  days  of  yore, 

I  know  that  wild,  free  course  is  o’er. 


72 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


It  boots  not  to  prolong  the  strife : 
That  brave,  old-fashioned,  cheery  life 
Is  ended.  My  contented  grip 
Resigns  at  last  the  guiding  reins  : 
No  more  my  bells  o’er  hills  and 
plains 

Shall  ring,  as  once,  through  these 
domains. 

And  therefore  I  have  brought  my 
whip, 

To  hang  it  up  in  Berkley  Hall, 

To  see  it  grace  yon  antlers  tall 
Which  hold  those  old  swords  on  the 
wall, 

The  rusty  weapons  of  Sir  Hugh  : 

The  honor  is  its  well-earned  due.’ 

“We  welcomed  him  with  hearty  will, 
And  wished  him  many  bright  years 
still, 

Then  brought  the  wine — we  knew  the 
sort — 

And  brimmed  a  goblet  with  old  port. 
Through  the  red  cup  he  gazed  awhile, 
In  musing,  with  a  strange,  sad  smile.' 

“  ‘  Good  Uncle  Ralph,’  my  mother 
sighed, 

Dropping  the  embroidery  in  her  lap, 
‘  One  question  I  have  often  tried 
To  solve ;  and  yet,  through  some 
mishap, 

It  seems  conjecture  wandered  wide : 
But  you,  I  think,  can  solve  for  me 
Poor  Nora’s  mournful  history.’ 

“  The  old  man  looked  at  her  a  space, 
Looked  vaguely  in  her  upturned  face, 
As  if  endeavoring  to  recall 

The  far  scenes  of  the  past,  and 
said, — 

‘  For  her  sake  you  should  know  it 
all, 

For  my  sake,  too,  when  I  am  dead  ; 
But  first,  my  friends,  let  me  make 
clear 

The  reason  I  to-night  am  here. 

“  ‘  Beside  the  old  churchyard  to-day 
The  surly  sexton  crossed  my  way : 

He  glared  at  me  with  sidelong  leer, 
And  flung  his  spade  across  the  wall. 
Just  then  a  hurrying  team  drew  near : 

The  horses,  wagon,  bells,  and  all 
(Believe  me,  ’twas  a  marvellous  sign) 
Seemed  like  the  very  ghosts  of  mine ; 


The  driver — for  once  I  held  my  breath , 
To  see  the  flash 
Of  his  maniac  lash — 

Was  a  rattling  skeleton,  grim  and 
tall ; 

His  shout  was  the  hollow  shout  of 
Death  1 

“  ‘  My  team,  with  many  a  plunge  and 
rear, 

Went  mad,  then  stood  like  frighted 
deer, 

While  I  sat  like  a  girl  aghast, 
Until  that  awful  wagoner  passed-, 
And  when  I  looked  behind,  ’twas 
gone, 

And  we  were  in  the  road  alone. 

“  ‘  Think  not  that  superstitious  fright 
Could  cheat  my  ear  or  mock  my 
sight ; 

Although  the  calendar  counts  me 
old, 

My  heart  is  as  the  youngest  hold. 
Brave  Percy,  when  his  charger  stood 
First  on  the  field  of  Brandywine,22 
Beheld,  in  clear,  prophetic  mood, 

The  spot  which  should  receive  his 
blood ; 

He  saw  his  form’s  distinct  outline 
Stretched  on  the  sod, — his  steed,  in 
fright, 

Dashing  riderless  through  the  fight ; 
Then  instantly  he  galloped  on, 

And  sought  the  fate  he  could  not 
shun. 

“  ‘  It  is  a  hitter  night ;  the  cold 
For  the  first  time  now  makes  me 
old : 

Another  cup  of  this  warm  wine 
Perchance  will  give  the  blood  a 
start, 

And  thaw  the  chill  about  my  heart, 
And  clear  this  hazy  brain  of  mine.’ 

“Again  his  vague  eye  scanned  the 
glass, 

As  if  he  saw  old  memories  pass 
In  many  a  long  and  wavering  line ; 
And,  as  he  held  the  glowing  cup 
Between  him  and  the  lamp-light  up, 
The  color  of  the  deep  wine  threw 
Across  his  face  a  purple  hue  : 

I  could  but  shudder  where  I  stood, 

It  looked  so  like  a  dash  of  blood. 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  A  L  LEG  HA  NIES. 


73 


,{  At  last  he  spoke  in  under-tone, — 

‘  Those  grand  old  times  are  past  and 
gone ; 

But,  Esther,’ — here  his  eye  grew 
bright 

"With  something  of  its  former  light, — 
4  Do  you  remember  how  of  old 
Around  our  cause  your  numbers 
rolled  ? 

I  ever  loved  a  fiery  song  ; 

But  there  was  something  in  your 
voice 

"Which  made  the  listener’s  heart  re¬ 
joice, 

His  eye  of  courage  burn  more  bright, 
And  filled  him  with  a  fierce  delight 
That  did  not  to  the  words  belong : 
To  hear  again  such  music  sung 
Would  make  a  veteran  heart  grow 
young.’ 

11  My  mother’s  cheek  turned  some¬ 
what  red 

To  hear  the  praise  so  blufily  said  ; 

It  seemed  to  bring  the  vanished  days 
What  time  her  song  was  used  to 
praise. 

She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  shook 
her  head, 

And  said  her  voice  had  lost  its 
power, 

Her  singing  summer  day  had  sped, 
And  she  was  in  her  autumn  bower  ; 
The  water  of  a  spring-time  brook 
Makes  plenteous  music  through  the 
land, 

But  surely  ’twas  an  idle  look 

Which  sought  it  in  October’s  sand  ; 
Her  harp,  too,  since  that  night  of 
pain 

Had  never  known  its  chords  again. 

11  But  still  within  her  secret  breast 
She  thought  to  humor  him  were 
best : 

What  though  her  voice  had  somewhat 
failed, 

His  aged  ear,  so  long  assailed 
By  Winter,  could  not  be  o’er-nice, 
The  sense  so  Jong  inured  to  storm 
Might  deem  the  cadence  still  was 
warm, 

Nor  note  its  chill  of  autumn  ice  : — 
And  thus,  to  please  an  old  man’s 
whim, 

With  folded  hands,  she  sang  to  him. 


SONG.  - 

i. 

When  sailed  our  swift  eagle 
O’er  valley  and  highland, 
The  foe,  like  a  sea-gull, 

Fled  back  to  his  island, — - 
Fled  back  to  his  king-land, 
His  home  in  the  ocean, — 
The  white  cliffs  of  England, 
His  pride  and  devotion. 


n. 

Now  pea^e  and  contentment 
Fill  cottage  and  manor  ; 
No  star  of  resentment 
Is  lit  on  our  banner. 

Our  cannon  is  sleeping 
The  port-shadows  under ; 
The  spell  in  its  keeping 
Let  naught  break  asunder. 


in. 

The  impotent  taunt  let 

Go  by, — the  wind  brings  it; 
But  not  the  red  gauntlet, 

No  matter  who  flings  it. 
Who  palters  and  falters, 

Ne’er  hearken  his  story, 

But  strike  for  your  altars, 

For  Freedom  and  Glory. 


“  1  Nay,  never  say,’  the  old  man  cried, 
‘  Your  voice  is  like  a  brooklet  dried ; 
But  rather  say  ’tis  filled  again, 
O’erflowing  with  the  autumn  rain. 

“  ‘  It  carries  me  back,  both  brain  and 
heart, 

As  if  a  gale  swept  o’er  the  scroll ; 

I  see  the  storied  past  unroll ; 

And  now,  methinks,  I  may  impart 
Something  of  Nora  and  the  child. 

“  My  memory  is  a  restive  colt, 
Stubborn  at  times,  contrary,  wild, 
At  the  wrong  moment  apt  to  bolt ; 
But  wine  upon  an  old  man’s  lip, 

To  such  a  steed,  is  spur  and  whip.’ 


THE  WAGONER  OF  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 


{ 


74 

“Then  laughed  he  his  accustomed 
laugh, 

That  shook  the  glasses  on  the  board, 

And,  with  a  long  and  breathless 
quaff, 

The  wine  across  his  lip  was  poured  : 

The  goblet  dropt  from  out  his  hold, 

And  crashed  to  fragments  on  the 
floor  ; 

Slow  sank  his  chin,  slow  drooped  his 
lid, 

His  heavy  hands  beside  him  slid; 


He  slept, — ay,  slept, — but  breathed 
no  more, 

And  left  the  story  still  untold. 

“As  when  some  monarch  of  the  trees, 
Which  held  so  long  defiant  state 
Against  the  lightning  and  the  gale, 
O’erborne  at  last  by  its  own 
weight, 

While  laughing  in  the  passing  breeze, 
Falls  prone  in  the  astonished  vale, — 
So  fell  our  grand  old  Hercules.” 


" 

' 

V  '  ,  ■  . '  '  ■  ■ 

. 


■ 


- 


- 


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* 


,, 

. 


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•  . . 

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•  . 

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